Falling Leaves
by Nastrandir
Summary: The Warden and his companions make for Orzammar and the last treaty, and he knows that eventually, the end will come.
1. Oaths

_This story is rather different in tone to my others, and has no connection to my other Dragon Age story. As usual, I own almost nothing, and reviews are always welcome. _

_**Chapter One: Oaths**_

Beneath the high arches of the trees the day wore on, and the wind soughing in from the north turned rough. With his feet braced against curling bark and his shoulders flat against the spreading width of the branch beneath him, Darrian breathed in the early evening chill. He remembered the empty stone halls beneath the earth, and the pale elven spirits that had called out in thin, high voices. He closed his eyes and willed away the thought of them, and the werewolves that had lived in the caverns there, and the terrible revenge Zathrian had sought against them.

It was done, he thought, finished and done and the clan was safe, and there was little else to worry over.

Somewhere below, he heard footsteps, cautious and agile and a little too deliberately loud.

"I'm up here."

"Yes, I can see that," Zevran answered. "I am tempted to ask why."

He sat up and winced when something in his back pulled. "Am I needed?"

"Urgently. For dinner." Zevran tilted his head. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Hiding."

"Not very well, my Warden." Zevran smiled, and it was _that_ smile again, rapid and dazzling. "Will you be coming down, or must I strain my neck in order to enjoy looking at you?"

Darrian snorted and vaulted down off the branch. His heels hit the ground too sharply, and he swayed. "You enjoy looking at anything," he said, to try and distract himself from the sudden lurching dizziness. "Is everything alright?"

"No, we have not all been horribly slaughtered in your absence," Zevran said. "Disappointed?"

"Only slightly."

* * *

><p><em>He dreamed that night of the thing that looked like a dragon. It twisted above him in a sky the colour of wet slate, and when it opened its jaws, he tried to run. He tried to push himself away from it, but he could not, and his legs buckled. He lay there, his hands clenching against cold stone, and he could not move, not even when its song filled his head and his thoughts and his mouth until he knew nothing else. <em>

He woke, and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes until his heartbeat slowed. Angrily, he kicked the blankets aside. In the darkness he fumbled for his breeches and hauled them on with hands that shook slightly.

Outside, the bright dance of the fire chased away the shadows. When he listened, he could hear the wind and the creaking of the trees and the small, simple sounds of the night.

"Can't sleep?" Alistair lifted his head. He sat near the flames, the dog curled up near his feet, and his face full of fluttering shadows.

"No."

"The usual?"

Darrian nodded heavily. He sat, and almost without thinking, he pressed his fingers against the dog's thick fur. "It was singing to me."

Alistair did not smile. "I know. Sometimes I just see it, and sometimes I hear it talking to the others. Not talking. Sounds. You know what I mean. Those sounds."

He did, and when he thought of them, his stomach knotted. "Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not really." He sighed. "I just…why did I have to dream it _now?_ Is it even halfway to dawn?"

"No." Alistair grinned ruefully. "Shame the archdemon has no sense of propriety when invading our dreams, hmm? Couldn't wait until you'd got a few good hours in? Shameful. Rude, even."

"Very funny."

"You're smiling."

"Only because I don't want to hurt your feelings." Darrian grinned and scraped his hands through his loose hair. "Why don't you give it a try?"

"Smiling?"

"Sleeping," he said, and shot the man a pointed glare. "I won't be able to, and there's no sense in both of us sitting around out here."

"You're sure?"

He remembered the thing's song, and how it had rippled through him, as slow and as steady as the beat of his own blood. "I'm sure."

Alistair nodded and left him to the flames and the night and the dog's warm, welcome presence. He dug his fingertips gently against the soft patches behind the dog's ears and was rewarded with a sigh and a shiver. He curled himself a little closer to the dog's solid bulk and tried not to think about the cold brush of the amulet at his throat, and the gleam of darkspawn blood trapped in the glass there.

"On watch does not mean watching the dog, my dear Warden," Zevran murmured from somewhere behind him.

He stirred, and turned, and managed a tired smile. "I didn't hear you."

"I noticed." The assassin sat with easy, fluid grace. "What I do not notice is your fellow Grey Warden."

"I couldn't sleep, so I took Alistair's watch." Something flickered in the assassin's eyes, not quite sympathy, almost curiosity, and Darrian added, "And the forest is loud. At night."

Zevran grinned. "Haunted as well, or so they say."

He remembered the mist, and how it had flickered and twisted between the high branches. The still pools between the trees had been mirror-bright, and he remembered the wind as it keened, and the strange stone walls beneath the ground, high and white between the roots of the trees.

"I'd never seen a forest like this until I left Denerim with Duncan."

"Truly?"

"Why would I have? I grew up in Denerim." He stared down at his own hands, still wreathed across the dog's shoulder. "When I was younger, I used to sit on the roof of my father's house and I'd watch the city go all quiet at night. Or as quiet as it used to get. The ruins," Darrian said, and shrugged. "I didn't know they would look like that."

"Empty stone."

"Yes," he said, and tried to ignore the strange ache in his chest. "I don't know. Did you see the shapes on the walls? The carved shapes?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know whether they were letters or pictures. Not that I would've been able to read them, either way."

The dog sighed and rolled over, and Darrian rubbed his hand across the dog's broad nose. He noticed Zevran's slightly perplexed expression, and demanded, "What?"

"Oh, I don't know. I simply do not relish the prospect of introducing my hands to that monster's fleas."

"He doesn't have fleas."

"You're certain of this, are you?" Zevran rested his chin on one hand. "You are very tired, my Grey Warden. You need to sleep."

"I'm fine."

"We spent yesterday neck-deep in werewolves, my friend, and there lies a long walk ahead of us on the morrow. If you are so obstinately set on wearing yourself out, I am sure there are more enjoyable ways of achieving this, hmm?"

"Yes," Darrian said, and found himself returning the assassin's smile. "But not tonight."

"_Oh_," Zevran said. "Is that a promise, or a threat?"

He laughed. "Which would you prefer?"

"You taunt me with your words."

"You're an easy target." Darrian patted the dog's neck again and rolled onto his side. Against his lips, the night air was cool. "Six months ago I wanted nothing more than to get out of Denerim."

"And now?"

"I don't know," he answered, honestly.

"Is it truly so awful, my Warden? You live, and in freedom, of a sort."

"I suppose." He thought of Soris, and Shianni, and the day everything had changed. "If I wasn't here I'd be locked up, I suppose. Or dead."

"See? Fate is a cruel and teasing mistress, my Warden, but sometimes her favours fall where they should." The corners of Zevran's mouth curled up into another grin. "And this way, you are blessed with my inestimable company, yes?"

"Blessed or cursed."

The assassin's hands lifted, slim and agile, and Darrian noticed again the small scars that twined across the back of one, disappearing down his forearm.

"You have only yourself to blame," the assassin said. "_You_ spared my life."

"Only to get you to shut up," he retorted mildly.

"Oh, you are a cruel man, my friend. Such cutting words, and from such a lovely mouth. Now," Zevran added, his voice still bland, "While I cannot admit to entirely _wanting_ you to leave me to my own thoughts, it is late. I do not wish to be accused of attempting to assassinate you by way of lack of sleep."

He remembered those first days, terse and impatient, when the others watched the assassin ceaselessly, and Wynne would not let him close to her herb pouches, when even Morrigan eyed him askance. When it had been assumed that the assassin would not be taking watches overnight, when it had been argued out that maybe he should be made to give up his weapons.

_"And have him gutted by the first darkspawn, bandit or angry bear that jumps out at him?" Darrian scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Alistair, don't be absurd."_

_ "I'm not," the Warden said, and scowled. "At least, I'm not trying to be. I just…I suppose I don't understand it."_

_ "Well, we were both perfectly happy with the Chantry girl who speaks to the Maker and the qunari who was imprisoned for murder. What's different?"_

_ "Well, when you put it like _that_." Alistair sighed. He shrugged, and added, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to question, or, you know…"_

_ "I know."_

_ "It's just, we are the only Grey Wardens around. I'd really hate to be the only one if something happens to you."_

_ "Yes," Darrian said, and nudged him. "You'd have to make all the big grown-up decisions yourself."_

_ "Oh, very funny. Here I am, worrying about your life, and you mock me."_

_ "I know." _

_ "Look," Alistair said, heavily. "If you think it's alright, then it's alright." _

_ He smiled then, and nodded. "Alistair?"_

_ "Yes?"_

_ "Thanks." _

_ "Yes, well. Us struggling heroes have to stick together." _

_ "Yes," Darrian said, and he remembered Ostagar, and how the sky had been filled with fire and the sound of men dying. He remembered how Alistair had hauled him away from the sweep of the darkspawn's axe, how the man had turned and let his shield absorb the terrible, shuddering impact. "We do." _

"You won't," he said. "Be accused, I mean."

Zevran tilted his head to one side. "Let us not test your strange trust of your followers, hmm?"

He groaned and pushed up to his feet. The assassin was right, he supposed, and when he crawled back beneath the blankets, he felt the aching tiredness again. How long, he wondered, how long had it been since he had been able to fall into sleep easily?

_He pushed his way out of the tent and into the brisk chill of the early morning. Smoke plumed up from the last glow of the fire, and he noticed the assassin sitting poised on the flat rock. _

_ "Zevran?"_

_ The assassin turned, and the gently curving lines on his face shifted slightly when he smiled. "Ah. My Warden." _

_ "Why do you call me that? I do have a name."_

_ "It is what you are, is it not?"_

_ "Yes," he said, and hopped up onto the rock beside him. "It's not what I've always been. Are you alright?"_

_ The assassin's head came up. "Why would I not be?"_

_Darrian looked at him, at the shadows around his eyes. The smile beneath was bright and edged, and he wondered again what the assassin had left behind, what he had done. "I don't know. I just wanted to know."_

_ "Oh." One side of his mouth slid up, and he added, "Thank you, Darrian." _

* * *

><p>Out of the forest, the days broke clear and crisp. The road ran west, twining through low hills that lay brown and folded beneath the pale sky. The afternoons often brought rain, falling in quick, chill bursts from grey clouds, and Zevran huddled beneath his cloak and silently cursed the climate. The mountains and Orzammar lay ahead, he supposed, and after that, Denerim, and he wondered what they might find there. He would be hunted, he knew, and he wondered again why he had tried quite so hard to prod the Warden into accepting his services.<p>

Almost without thinking, he let himself look across the uneven, damp ground to where the Warden walked. Careful, light-footed steps, and one hand on his sword hilt. Loose black hair brushed his shoulders, and Zevran eyed him for another admiring moment.

_He woke to sudden, sharp pain, and he gritted his teeth. The sunlight seemed too viciously bright. There were ropes around his wrists, and others lashed around his ankles, and his weapons were gone. Blood, and he could feel it, seeping hot from the gouge just beneath his collarbone. There were other marks on him as well, the clinging ache of bruises along both shoulders, the raw sting of scrapes on one arm and down the back of one calf muscle. _

_ "Is he awake?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "Sit him up."_

_ "This isn't wise," someone else said, male and young and rough. _

_ "I just want to talk to him." _

_ Hard hands dug into his shoulders and lifted him. His stomach somersaulted horribly, and he held on until he was aware of the ground beneath his knees. He could smell mud and metal and the coppery tang of his own blood, filling his mouth. _

_Some shadow moved in front of him, and resolved slowly into the angled face of the elven Warden. He was flushed, his temples running with sweat, and some part of Zevran's mind wondered why no one had informed him that at least one of his targets was rather easy on the eyes. Painfully, he looked at the other one, the tall, broad-shouldered man, and noted that beneath his scowl, he was also pleasantly handsome, all brown eyes and thick gold-brown hair and high cheekbones. _

_ Still, the elf had proved quick enough with his blade, and Zevran remembered how the sword had batted past his and sunk beneath his collarbone, how the human Warden's shield had thumped into his shoulder, how one of them had kicked his feet out and sent him sprawling. _

_ "Oh," he managed, and saw the elven Warden frown, black eyebrows drawing together. "I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all." _

How long had it been, he wondered, since that day? He had spoken the words that had saved him from the death he thought he had wanted, and the elven Warden had smiled. A strange smile, a smile that did not quite reach his pale blue eyes.

He breathed in, and the air against his tongue was damp and cool. He looked at the Warden again, at the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders, and for a small and delightful moment, he allowed his thoughts to wander.

* * *

><p>Under sweeping curtains of grey rain, the road curled through a high stand of trees, and there, where it twisted sharply past the sweep of an old ash, the darkspawn attacked. They attacked as they always did, throwing themselves forward quickly and viciously, until Zevran could hear nothing past the thunder of their feet and the scream of their swords.<p>

He knew about the poison, the taint that lived somewhere in their blood, so he was careful, as careful as he dared.

The bright ripple of Morrigan's spells sent them reeling back, and the rain hissed against them when they burned. He twisted beneath the downswing of an axe, and his follow-up kick sent the creature sprawling against Alistair's shield. He turned again, and his heel slid. He pushed on, and when he saw the other Warden, hemmed in on both sides, he quickened his pace. A crackling, pale spell swept one darkspawn to its knees, and he sank both blades into the back of its neck.

Darrian grinned raggedly, and turned too slowly. Half a step behind, Zevran saw the other darkspawn's sword snake past the Warden's. He drove his sword into the darkspawn's flank and cracked the pommel of his dagger against the back of its head. When it swayed, Darrian buried his sword in its belly and held on until it toppled, the sword ripping free.

"Warden?" Zevran ignored the fallen darkspawn. "You're bleeding."

"I'm fine," he said. He took a step, and blanched. "Oh."

"Yes, fine," Zevran muttered, and caught his arm. "Obviously fine, my Warden. Come. You need healing before you splash more of your own blood onto the ground."

Through the pounding rain he saw Wynne, the point of her staff glowing silver, and Alistair, one side of his armour spattered with mud and grime.

"What happened?" Alistair squinted. "Is he alright?"

"He's hurt."

Wynne reached him, and wordlessly she helped him steady the Warden. He eased Darrian's arm around his neck, and pried the sword from his other hand. The Warden was shivering in great, heaving tremors that shook his whole frame. When his knees gave way, Zevran took his weight against one shoulder and pushed on through the rain that tracked cold ribbons past his eyes.

* * *

><p>The earth was wet and slippery and no fire would catch around the damp wood, and even when Morrigan set it ablaze, the rain pattered it out and sent smoke twisting through the chill air. Zevran paced, too aware of how his sodden hair hung around his neck, and too aware of the silence across the small glade.<p>

"He's sleeping," Alistair said eventually, and his voice was rough. "He'll be alright. Are you hungry?"

He summoned a smile, and retorted, "For the kind of food you cook? You make a poor case for the offering."

The rain did not ease as the evening fell into dusk, and Zevran noticed the Warden's absence until the impatience that prickled under his skin made him push up to his feet. He left his barely-finished plate beside the dog and ignored Alistair's plaintive shout. He waited out the sunset, the folds of his cape heavy and dripping around his shoulders until he gave up and heaved it off.

"I thought you said you liked the rain," Darrian said, from somewhere behind him.

Zevran turned, and tried to ignore the slight relief that broke through him. "Oh? You see through me so easily, my Grey Warden?"

"You look about as pleased as a soaked cat." Darrian grinned, lopsidedly.

"I _do_ like rain. The warm rains of Antiva. Not _this_," he muttered, and brushed droplets off the straggling ends of his hair. "You are still alive, I see."

"Unimpressed?"

"With the way you walked into that darkspawn's sword, yes," he said, a little sharper than intended.

Darrian scowled and pushed a hand through his hair. Thick black hair, Zevran noticed again, and spilling through his pale fingers like silk. "I know," the Warden said, eventually. "It was a mistake. Stupid mistake."

"And just a few weeks ago your fellow Grey Warden was telling me all about how heroically you scaled the tower at Ostagar."

"Well, we ran through it, crashing into darkspawn along the way. I wouldn't say we scaled it. And we both got shot with more than a couple of arrows each."

"Such heroes."

"If we hadn't," Darrian said, acidly, "You would've missed your opportunity to run away from the Crows."

He wanted to snarl back at the Warden, but the young elf was healing and tired, and frustratingly, he was probably right. "Hmm, true," he murmured. "And who knows? My next target may have been neither as benevolent nor as handsome as the one who showed me such mercy."

The Warden groaned. He propped himself awkwardly on the uneven sprawl of a fallen branch. "You _never_ stop, do you?"

"My dear Warden, I am soaked to the skin and shivering, but never let it be said that Zevran cannot find something to smile about. Besides, I gave you my word, no?"

"Yes," Darrian said, thoughtfully. "You did."

He looked across the green swathe of the glade, to where Sten stood on watch, his profile fierce against the gloom. No fire broke the twilight, and when he glanced back at the Warden, he saw the deep shadows beneath his eyes. His loose shirt clung to his shoulders, patched and wet with the rain, and again Zevran recognized the lean, spare frame of a man who had been running, and running for too long.

"My father once said that words are the most powerful things we possess, even when everything else is taken away from us," Darrian said quietly.

Zevran _almost_ let himself snipe back with something about his own father, about how he had never known the man, and why should he have, coming from the place he did?

"I swore to Duncan, when we left Denerim," the Warden said, in the same soft tone. "I swore that I would stay alive."

"Did he demand such a thing of you?"

"No. He didn't even ask it. We were attacked, maybe seven days out of the city. I'd never been that far out of the city before." The corners of his mouth moved. "They were just bandits. Scared men. Scared human men, and I killed them. After they were dead, I swore to Duncan that I would stay alive, and that I'd come back to Denerim."

"And will you?" Zevran asked, to fill the silence, to change the strange thoughtfulness in the Warden's blue eyes. "Soaking wet and half-recovered?"

"Of course, if another darkspawn doesn't get me first." The smile resurfaced then, edged and slightly vicious. "And besides, isn't that what your oath was for? To make sure that doesn't happen?"

"Yes," Zevran said, and found that whatever he had wanted to say locked up in his throat. "It was. Though I cannot hope to prove useful when you insist on walking directly into the swords of your enemies."

"You're right." Darrian grimaced, and when he pushed up to his feet, the lines around his eyes tightened. "You'll let me know if we get ambushed, I hope?"

"In this weather? Even your darkspawn will have gone to ground, if they are at all sensible." He watched as the Warden turned away, and he noticed how the Warden's hands twisted together, white and slender. "But if such a tragedy should come to pass, have no fear, my Grey Warden. I know where you sleep."


	2. Snow

_As usual, I own little. Just a reminder of the rating for this chapter, and reviews are always welcome. _

_**Chapter Two – Snow**_

Under the grey sky the road swept west, twisting between the rain-wet hills until the wind was freighted with the brisk cold of the high mountains. Darrian led them at a gruelingly fast pace, and when the sun finally slid away behind banked clouds, he let the ache in his calves and shoulders take away the memory of Shianni on her knees, her dress bunched up around her thighs, and the air all thick with blood.

The night came in fast and cold, and Wynne made stew sprinkled with herbs and when he shrugged, she grabbed his wrist and placed a heaped bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. Later, he lay sleepless and twisting while the wind thrummed at the walls of the tent. He rolled over again and swore out loud.

_"Come on, son. You need to get dressed."_

_ "Father." He swallowed, gritted his teeth, and said, "I don't want this."_

_ "I know." Father touched his shoulder and smiled. "It's difficult, and it's strange, and you don't know her."_

_ "It's not even that," he snapped angrily. "No one asked me. Asked either of us." _

The Joining had followed, though, and he had left them behind, the arl's son drowning in his own blood and Soris ashen and Shianni clinging to him. He remembered the taste of the darkspawn blood, and how it had burned down his throat and into his heart and filled his dreams with the scream of the dragon.

_"You," Alistair said, and dragged in a shaken breath. "I thought…Maker above, Darrian. I _saw_ you. You were bleeding so much. You're alright?"_

_ "I think so," he answered. "I think…I don't know. Are you..?"_

_ "He must have been there," Alistair said, and his voice cracked. "Duncan, he must...he must have, during the battle, and I…well, we were up there, and…" _

_ He did not know what else to do, and when Alistair's eyes shimmered, he reached out and hauled the other Warden into a rough hug. "I know," he said, and pressed his forehead against Alistair's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." _

He burrowed under the blankets and tried to will himself into sleep, and when it finally took him, his dreams were empty.

* * *

><p>Darrian emerged into the chill grey dawn and when the dog ploughed into him and nearly took him off his feet, he laughed. He wrapped his arms around the dog's strong neck and let the dog's warmth seep into him. He saw Leliana and Alistair beside the firepit, both of them chattering. Further away, he noticed Zevran, sitting with his legs crossed and both blades loosened from his weapon belt. The dagger was across his knees, and Darrian watched the smooth, elegant motion of the assassin's hands as he cleaned the blade.<p>

He remembered Denerim, and the summer there two years past, when the streets had stayed lively and thronged and full of music until well after moonrise. There had been dancing, and he had finally slipped away from the others and into the stifling shadows between the houses.

He remembered fumbling hands and harsh breathing and pleasure that was over far too quickly. Slim, muscled thighs around his hips, and the other boy's mouth against his, open and pliant. It had been hurried and rough and he had found long scrapes on his shoulders afterwards.

_"Where were you?" Soris stumbled against him and grinned. His face was flushed and his red hair was damp. "That friend of Shianni's…what's her name? Can't remember. She was looking for you. Wanted a dance." _

_ His arms felt too empty and his lips were swollen and his clothes were disheveled, his shirt patched with sweat. "Just a dance?"_

_ Soris laughed. "Probably not. Want me to say I haven't seen you?" _

The dog's nose brushed his face, and he flinched.

"My Grey Warden," Zevran said mildly, and he noticed that the assassin had moved, silently, as he often seemed to. "Whatever are you thinking about?"

"Nothing suitable for your delicate ears."

The assassin laughed, lilting and amused. "I've been called many things, my Grey Warden. Never that."

Darrian looked up at him, looked at the soft fall of his golden hair, at the way his shirt opened at the throat. "I'm not entirely surprised."

"No? Am I so easy to read?"

"No," Darrian said, thoughtfully. "You're not."

* * *

><p>Six days later the snow began to fall, and Darrian cupped his hands and watched as the tiny flakes gathered between his fingers. Tall stands of pine trees rose on both sides of the valley, bristling with ice. The nights were full of screaming wind and needling cold, and even wrapped in furs, he often woke shivering and startled. The road wound between the peaks, deep with the wind-driven snow, and each day's march left him wrung through. He ordered the others on faster, and faster still when the afternoon sky turned dark and threatening. Each breath between chapped lips was dry and cold, and the drag of the snow beneath his boots made him ache. He ignored Wynne's urging to slow down, and snapped, "This whole valley's too open. You planning on staying awake all night just to make sure the rest of us don't freeze to death?"<p>

Ice clung to the smooth sides of the rocks where the road rose up and over a crest, and the footing there was treacherous. He stumbled, and the steadying hand he flung out jarred against the stone. The night closed in, pressing and dark, and by the time he called a halt and beckoned the others under the broad curve of an overhang, his feet were soaked and nearly numb.

He listened to the wind as it cut through the high clefts of the rocks above. He could hear the others, Leliana humming something, and Alistair's voice as he gently teased the dog. He ate, swallowing down mouthfuls of hard biscuit until his throat closed up. He turned his shoulders against the rock and felt the cold, seeping and inexorable.

"You know," Zevran murmured, "I never thought I would be looking forward to reaching a city that is built underground."

"No."

The assassin turned so that his shoulder was against Darrian's. "Perhaps the next time you need to cross all of Ferelden in search of allies, you could leave me behind somewhere a touch warmer?"

He closed his eyes against the brittle play of the wind, and when the assassin stayed silent, he leaned into the solid press of his shoulder. "I'll try."

* * *

><p>The night faded away, and when Zevran surfaced from odd, blurred dreams, he breathed in the knifing cold. Overhead, he saw that the clouds had fled, leaving behind the pale burn of the late stars. He twisted himself away from the stone and realised that his shoulder was aching, and inside his boots, his feet were stiff.<p>

"Did you sleep?" the Warden asked, and his voice was strained.

"As if on a bed clad in the most luxuriant silken sheets."

"Liar."

"Oh? You can observe how I might sleep in such a situation, if you wish to put my words to the test."

The Warden groaned. "And here I was hoping the weather might have dampened your enthusiasm."

"Never." He rolled his shoulders. He glanced down the shadowed curve of the overhang and saw Wynne as she stirred, her face pallid beneath the white fall of her hair, and Morrigan, swathed in her cape. "Did you dream?"

"No."

He looked at the Warden, sharply, and saw how his mouth flexed down, how his eyebrows met, and knew he was lying again. "Oh."

"Tell me about Antiva."

"Oh?" He summoned a grin, and tipped his head back against the stone. "I have already told you so many stories of my Antiva."

"You've told me about how you killed people. You've told me about the Crows. Tell me about your home."

"My home?" He thought again of Rinna, and how she had twisted above him, beneath him, how her teasing soft mouth had whispered his name. How she had come to him in the darkness, in those four small rooms, and how he had buried himself in her until the world disappeared.

_"Dance with me tomorrow."_

_ He rolled over, taking her with him. Her knees landed either side of his hips, and he grinned up at her, at the way the candlelight swam in her loose hair. "Of course I will."_

_ "Did you speak to your master?"_

_ "Yes, my beauty, and I thought we agreed to speak of nothing but ourselves in this room."_

_ She grinned and nipped at the tips of his ears, at the hollow of his throat. "I am excitable sometimes. Forgive me?"_

_ "Oh, perhaps."_

_ "Only perhaps?" Her smile widened, and she kissed him, deep and demanding. "Whatever might I do to convince you?" _

_ He slid his hands down to the swell of her hips. "I will think of something, I'm sure." _

"Antiva City is always warm, always full of the flowers in the summer," he said, and was slightly surprised when his voice stayed steady. "It is busy and full of colour, and we smile more than your people here in Ferelden."

"I said tell me about it, not point out how much better it is than here," Darrian said, drily. "You miss it."

"I suppose I do. Do you miss your home?"

"Sometimes. Why did you leave?"

"We are given little choice," he said, and it was almost true. "We go where we are sent."

_"I want to go, master."_

_ "Why?"_

_ Because she was dead, and because there was nothing left. Because the inside of his mouth felt like sand, and because he had seen her bleed out her life in front of him. Because Taliesen had tried to touch him afterwards, and he had spun away, and when Taliesen had tried again, he had caught the other Crow's hand hard enough to bruise. _

_ "Because I have proved myself, and I am good enough."_

"Zevran?"

"Mmm?"

The Warden said nothing, only turned until his arm was against Zevran's again. Wordlessly, he tipped his head against Zevran's shoulder, and the assassin felt him breathing, warm and measured.

* * *

><p>The mountains rose high and ice-clad beneath the sky. Fitful gusts winnowed last night's snowfall into driving white plumes. The road wound between the crags and flattened out somewhere below. A grey evening five days later found them camped in a scooped-out hollow of rock that was small and cramped and mercifully kept the worst of the screaming wind at bay.<p>

Darrian set his shoulders against the slope of a half-fallen pine and glared at the tumbling snow. Somewhere behind, he could hear the others as they bustled about with tents and bowls and armour and weapons. He waited out the dusk alone until the ribbon of the sky above was dark.

"I don't want to know," he said when he heard someone's boots creaking against the snow. "Not even if there's an entire legion of darkspawn."

"What about an entire legion of barely-clad voluptuous ladies?" Zevran asked.

"Send them to Alistair," he muttered, but could not quite hide his smirk. "I'm sure even he could do more good with them than I could. Besides, barely-clad ladies would be frostbitten at best."

"There you go again, with your logic and your practicality." Zevran stopped in front of him, arms folded and one eyebrow arched.

For a long moment, Darrian simply looked at him, looked at his awful pallor, looked at the way ice crystals clung to the loose strands of his golden hair. "You look dreadful."

"And here I thought it was my imagination." Almost thoughtfully, Zevran raised one hand, brushed his thumb across the corner of Darrian's mouth. "You're tired, my Warden."

"Yes." Darrian wanted to catch the assassin's hand, wanted to tug his gloves off and feel the pressure of his skin. "Zevran, if this is…"

One of the assassin's hands slipped into his hair, and Zevran's fingers cradled the back of his head. Absurdly, Darrian wondered if his heart was going to hammer clean out of his chest. When Zevran kissed him, he shivered and grabbed at the assassin's head until he could slide his fingers through thick blond hair. He felt the assassin laugh, and the movement of his lips turned pliant and warm and damp.

Darrian pulled away, aware suddenly of how swollen and heavy his tongue felt, how his breath was pluming around him, how the assassin's gloved hands were still against his face. He wanted to spin them both around and push Zevran against the tree and bury himself in his arms and forget about the cold and the world.

He made himself stop, made himself look into the assassin's face. "Zevran, do you want this?"

"Oh, I thought that would be obvious by now, my Warden."

"Do you?"

Zevran's mouth covered his again, and he groaned. He let himself go, let himself fall into it, the fierce, seeking pleasure of it. The assassin's hands swept up and tangled at the nape of his neck. He worked his arms around Zevran's waist and pulled him closer.

"I read you quite correctly, then, my Warden?"

"You did." Darrian ran his thumbs along the assassin's jaw. "You always have."

"Oh, I don't know. I will admit that most of the time I am simply admiring you."

He laughed. He leaned his forehead against Zevran's shoulder, and when the assassin stroked up and down the line of his neck, he sighed. "You feel good."

"Good," Zevran murmured, and tipped Darrian's head up for another kiss, deep and lingering. His other hand wandered down Darrian's chest, and the Warden sighed.

"That's not fair."

Zevran paused, his fingers lightly curled over Darrian's belt before they dipped lower. "Why?"

"Because it's too cold to do anything else. At least properly."

"Oh? Might I take that as a suggestion that you at least _do_ wish to...do other things?"

The teasing pressure of Zevran's hand turned his mind blank. He swallowed, and managed to mutter, "Of course I do."

Zevran kissed the side of his neck, nipped at the tip of his ear. "Good."

He breathed in too quickly, and the cold seared into his mouth. He slid his hands down the assassin's sides, ran them over the lines and buckles of his leathers. He cupped Zevran's hips and hauled him closer again.

Part of him acknowledged the injustice of it, of how they were easily a day or so from Orzammar, and the assassin had chosen _now_ to make his interest all the clearer? The pleased half of him noted how well the assassin's hips fit against his, how Zevran's tongue tangled with his, wet and wanting and close to frantic.

"Zevran," he murmured against the side of the other elf's neck. "It's very cold."

One slender hand slid up the inside of his thigh. "Is it?"

Darrian grinned and somehow pried himself away from the assassin. He led Zevran across the swathe of the ice-hard ground and into the darkness of the tent and fumbled his way across the buckles and straps that crossed the assassin's chest. He heard Zevran's pleased murmur, and then felt his hands, agile and fast. They shed leathers and weapons and boots and Darrian lit the small lantern before he hauled the assassin under the blankets. He was shivering, and against him, the assassin was all chill skin and slightly damp clothes.

"Next time," Zevran muttered against his chin. "Next time I seduce you, I am going to ensure that we are somewhere inside, and warm, and properly lit."

"Next time?"

"Well, you can hardly expect to appreciate _everything_ I can offer when we can barely _see_ each other, can you?"

He laughed, a little strained, and threaded his hands through Zevran's hair. The nape of his neck was cold, so Darrian cupped his hands over the soft skin there. "That's a promise, is it?"

"It is, my Warden."

He let his legs open around the assassin's waist, and when his slipped his hands around the back of Zevran's thighs, he heard that low, pleased laugh again. Zevran's hips rocked forward and Darrian surged to meet him until the friction between them was maddening and delicious all at once. Blindly, he sought the assassin's mouth, and groaned when Zevran's hands framed his face.

"This isn't fair."

"Oh? You brought me in here, my Warden."

His fingers bumped against Zevran's chin, and slowly, he explored the assassin's face. He found smooth skin and the sharp press of his cheekbones, and the soft movement of his mouth beneath. He let his hand wander down the assassin's throat until he brushed the collar of his shirt. The small lantern flame swam in the Crow's golden hair.

Zevran's hand dipped under his waistband, and he hissed. The Crow's other hand tugged the laces open. Zevran's fingers wrapped around him, deliberate and stroking and Darrian arched into him. Greedily, he claimed the assassin's mouth again and again. Zevran's pace quickened, and Darrian thrust up into the wonderful, aching pressure of his hand. Too soon – _far_ too soon – it was too much, and the shuddering heat of his climax made him cry out.

He sank onto the damp blankets, aware of the rapid beat of his heart, and the weight of the assassin above him, and the astonishing lassitude that clung to him.

"Zevran?"

"Mmm?"

"Sorry."

The Crow laughed. "Not to fret, my dear Warden. It has been a long time for you?"

"With the help of anyone else's hand? Since before Ostagar."

He lingered a moment longer, his eyes half-closed, listening to the measured sound of Zevran's breathing against his throat. Gracelessly, Darrian wrapped his arms around Zevran's shoulders and pitched them both over so that the Crow was sprawled underneath him. He shucked the blankets up and over them both and busied himself with Zevran's laces. When the assassin lifted his hips, he eased his breeches and smallclothes down and leaned in to kiss the jut of Zevran's hipbone.

Teasingly slowly, he took Zevran into his mouth until he heard the assassin's sharp inhalation. Deliberately, he closed one hand around the base of Zevran's rigid length and stroked. Not hurrying, Darrian worked him with his fingers and his mouth until the assassin arched, his hands combing and pressing through Darrian's loose hair. Zevran groaned something, and then muttered, "_Oh_."

Darrian grinned and rested his face against the warm, trembling inside of the assassin's thigh. "Oh?"

"I do not care to be outdone, my Warden."

"No?"

"No, and take that smug look off that lovely face."

Darrian ignored him and smoothed his thumbs across the assassin's hips. In the fluttering lamplight, he could see the twining, dark twists of the assassin's tattoos, vanishing up under the loose hem of his shirt. "So what do you intend to do about it?"

"Right now?" Zevran smiled wickedly. "Absolutely nothing. It is too cold, my Warden, and the night wanes."

Darrian rolled off him. He tugged the blankets up again and shivered. "And to think you once called _me_ a tease."

"You were half-dressed and covered in sweat from sparring. If that isn't deliberately planned, then I do not know what else to call it, my Warden."

He laughed. "Next time, then?"

"Next time," Zevran echoed, and caught the Warden's face between his hands. He pressed his mouth to Darrian's, bruising and merciless and challenging. "And next time, I expect nothing less than a locked door and your undivided attention, my Warden."

* * *

><p>The gates of Orzammar rose up from the side of the mountain. On both sides, torches twisted, batted almost flat by the wind. Darrian kicked his heels against the stone, aware that his feet were almost numb, that his hands were cramping inside his gloves. Somewhere behind, the snow was wet and red with the blood of Loghain's messengers, and for once, he found that he did not care, not when the cold was making the bones of his face ache.<p>

Inside, the stone was warm beneath his feet, and he wondered why that troubled him. He looked up at the arch of the rock above, and suppressed a shiver. He nudged Zevran and murmured, "How deep is this city?"

Zevran leaned on the edge of the stone. Somewhere far below, lava rolled between the gaps in the stone, blurred with heat and livid. "I find that I do not wish to guess."

"So," Alistair said, and mopped at the sweat that gleamed across his forehead. "Plan? Do we have one?"

"Right now?" Darrian grinned mirthlessly. He remembered how the guards at the doors had motioned them inside, how the passageway had sloped down and down again. How the sudden heat had made him glad, before he had noticed the press of the stone on all sides. "We wait, I suppose. See if this Lord Harrowmont will see us."

"The Proving," Alistair said, and frowned.

"I know. I don't like it either. It seems a lot of effort just to see the man who _might_ be king."

"I suppose there's no other way." Alistair scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Wouldn't it be nice to get somewhere, just _once_, and have things be easy?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

Alistair turned, and when he made his way across the flat spread of the stone, Darrian followed him, very aware of the assassin's presence at his other shoulder. Voices and sounds carried strangely here, he decided, bouncing off the curving arches above or else muffled by the distance and the press of the heat. He trailed Alistair back through the market, past merchants shouting prices for weapons and food and the blaze of gems trapped in gold and silver.

At the tavern, he wrapped his hands around a tankard and noticed the wary silence, noticed how the dwarves watched them, sidelong or openly. Zevran sat beside him, the solid press of his thigh warm and tempting, and Darrian's thoughts ran wild. He remembered how well Zevran's body had fit above his, how the hot press of the assassin's mouth had stolen words and breath and the inclination to do anything else except _feel_.

He lasted out the afternoon – or whatever it was down here, since he was no longer sure – half aware of the others as they talked about small, unimportant things, books and stories and Alistair teasing Shale with riddles.

"You see?" Alistair said, and smiled. "He's not even listening to me."

Darrian blinked, and blurted out, "Yes, I am."

Leliana laughed. "Your mind is not with us at all, and you are a terrible liar."

"Actually," he said, and when he felt Zevran's hand on the inside of his knee, he shivered. "I was thinking about something I agreed to."


	3. Mazes

_As usual, little belongs to me. A very big thank you to everyone who's reviewing or has this story on alerts or favourites. **  
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_**Chapter Three: Mazes**_

Small sconces lit the corridors behind the taproom, and the air smelled of old stone and dust and mildew. When Zevran spun him again so that his shoulders hit the wall, Darrian laughed. "You know," he said, and threaded his hands through the assassin's hair again. "This isn't getting us to the bedroom any quicker."

"Oh? Is there a need to hurry?"

He grasped the assassin's hips and hauled him closer. Deliberately, he worked one thigh between both of Zevran's, and grinned when he heard the assassin sigh. "Zevran," he said, and nipped at the soft skin beneath the assassin's jaw. "I have been sitting there all afternoon watching you watching me, and all I have been able to do is _think_ about what I want to do to you."

"Oh? Have you?"

"In great detail."

Zevran laughed. He stepped away, and Darrian went with him, and somehow together they stumbled into the Warden's room wrapped around each other. Darrian kicked the door shut and staggered. Balance lost, he let his weight take them both onto the end of the bed. He heard the assassin's breathless laugh, and then Zevran was above him, hands busy at belts and buckles. Awkwardly, he sat up, and when he tried to help, his fingers tangled against the assassin's and the last of the buckles confused him.

"And _you_ led our disparate collection of companions all the way to Andraste's Ashes and back?" Zevran smirked and batted his hands away. "Lie down and let me."

Darrian obeyed, and when he felt the assassin's hands on his bare skin, he hissed. Zevran worked his boots off and his breeches down. His hands slipped beneath Darrian's thighs, and he guided the Warden up until he was sitting on the end of the bed, Zevran between his knees.

"Oh," Darrian managed. He tried to think of something else to say, but the demanding pressure of Zevran's mouth stole his thoughts. "Zevran?"

"No, my Warden. No more words." Zevran grinned and very gently, he bit at the inside of Darrian's thigh. "You can call this my revenge, if you want."

"Oh," Darrian said again, uselessly. He dug his fingers against Zevran's scalp, and when Zevran teased him with his hands and the deliberate, sucking motion of his mouth, he shuddered. "Wait," he said, between heaving gasps. "Not like that."

"No?" Zevran did not let him go, and the wet, stroking warmth of his tongue made Darrian groan. "Such a shame, my Warden."

Darrian knotted his fingers in Zevran's hair and drew him to his feet. He kissed Zevran, insistent and messy. He unfastened the assassin's leathers, pulled impatiently until the assassin's dusky skin was beneath his hands, warm and pliant. He traced the swirling lines of Zevran's tattoos, followed where they curled around his shoulders, where they wrapped around his hip. "These are beautiful."

He found scars as well, old ones that tracked across the backs of Zevran's thighs and twisted between the dip of his shoulderblades. Below the assassin's collarbone he found the newest scar, thick and wide and shiny, and he swallowed. "That was me, wasn't it?"

"I _was_ trying to kill you," Zevran said, and covered Darrian's hand with his. "It healed well, my Warden. Do not trouble yourself."

He nodded. "Yes, I know."

"Good," Zevran said, and before he could speak again, the assassin pushed him back onto the bed.

He caught Zevran's weight against his chest, instinctively brought his legs up around the assassin's waist. Zevran was all lean muscle and the sliding friction between them had Darrian arching up desperately. He caught at Zevran's hips and rocked them together until he was gasping into the assassin's mouth.

Zevran's hand slipped under his thigh again. "Yes?"

"Yes," Darrian said, and his voice was rough. "_Please_."

The assassin guided Darrian's legs apart. He was gentle, and patient, and slowly he coaxed Darrian's body into a shuddering response. When he had two fingers buried in the Warden, he leaned over him, and urgently, Darrian sought the warmth of his mouth.

"Zevran," he said, raggedly.

"There is no rush, my Warden. No rush at all."

He lingered over Darrian a moment longer, his hair dragging against the Warden's collarbone. Darrian watched the play of the candlelight over his shoulders and the taut lines of his chest, and he grinned.

"Yes, my Warden?"

"Very nice."

"Nice?"

An instant later, Zevran was closer, and his mouth was all full of the musky scent of warm oil. He felt the assassin's fingers again, and the pressure of them was not nearly enough. He lifted his knees, and when Zevran slid into him, the breath locked up in his throat.

"No," Zevran murmured, and his fingers combed through Darrian's hair. "Keep breathing, my Warden."

"Been a long time," he said. He rolled his hips up against Zevran's and was rewarded by the assassin's hitching gasp. "Slowly?"

Zevran's smile softened slightly. With long, languid strokes, he thrust into Darrian until the Warden writhed. He closed one hand around Darrian's aching shaft and stroked, matching his own rhythm. Darrian twisted, and when his climax wracked him, Zevran cradled the back of his head. He felt it as the assassin followed him into an arching release, Zevran's mouth pressed hard against his shoulder.

In the idle silence afterwards, Darrian rolled onto his side. Admiringly, he eyed the assassin's bare skin and blond hair, loose in tumbled disarray.

"Why didn't we do this sooner?"

"You kept turning me down, my cruel Warden. You are lucky that I am so persistent."

Darrian laughed and trailed one hand down the solid planes of the assassin's chest. "That's one way of putting it."

"You were too much the challenge, my Warden. So strange, do you not think, to spare an assassin's life?"

He smoothed one hand over Zevran's hip, and asked, "So was that just a _thank-you_ for it?"

"And if it was? Would that be so bad?"

"No," Darrian admitted.

"My dear Warden, I have never failed quite so spectacularly before. It is hardly as if tumbling into bed with a benevolent _survivor_ is quite my usual approach."

"No?"

"No. Normally I'd kill them afterwards."

"That's not all that funny."

"Oh? But I thought I saw you smiling. My mistake," Zevran said, and he drew Darrian's face to his and kissed him. "I wanted you, yes, and you wanted me, and this is normally what occurs when two people want each other, yes?"

"Oh, I can think of a few things we haven't tried yet," Darrian retorted mildly. He let his hand wander down Zevran's stomach, and grinned when he felt muscles tensing beneath the soft skin there. "Care to stay a little longer, then?"

* * *

><p>Zevran lay on the tangled sheets and watched the dying candlelight. Sidelong, he admired the Warden's lazy, naked sprawl, all loose black hair and sweat-sheened skin. He was aware of the slope of the ceiling above, and the cluttered gloom of the beams, and how the small room had no windows.<p>

"So," Zevran said, and kept his tone insouciant. "After this last treaty of yours is gained. What then?"

One side of Darrian's mouth slid up. "Is this the part where you _want_ to mix pleasure with business?"

"I am curious, I will admit that."

"I don't know," Darrian said. "We'll go back to Arl Eamon, I suppose, and see what happens then."

Zevran let his fingers play down the slope of the Warden's shoulder, felt the corded tension that was in him, that was _still_ in him. He remembered the wind-raked darkness of the camp in the rolling flatlands, and the Warden sitting hunched beneath the fall of the rain.

_"Does it never stop raining here?"_

_ "No," Darrian answered, stiffly. _

_ "No?" Zevran sighed. "And where is it that you will be expecting me to shed my blood tomorrow?"_

_ "Redcliffe," the Warden said. "And I'm hoping we won't have to shed all that much blood." _

_ "No? You're expecting our luck to change, then, my Warden?"_

_ The Warden laughed then, and the rigid line of his shoulders eased slightly. "That would be too much to hope for, wouldn't it?"_

_ "Not at all."_

More stories had followed, Zevran remembered. He had told the Warden a half-honest story about how he had once slipped into his target's bedchamber, seduced and slaughtered the woman, and wasted the rest of the afternoon with her brother. The Warden had rolled his eyes, and laughed again, and retorted with some tale about stealing bread from the wrong merchant and spending the afternoon fleeing down the twisting alleyways of Denerim.

_"You sound like you miss the Crows."_

_ "Some of it," he said, and it was nearly true. "It gets you whatever you want. Women. Men. Whatever it is that you fancy."_

_ The Warden went still, and the rain ran in thick ribbons through his black hair. "And what is it that you fancy?" _

"_Oh," Zevran said, and grinned, deliberately sly. "I fancy many things. Things that are beautiful. Things that are dangerous and things that are exciting. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"_

_ The Warden's gaze lifted, pale blue and fierce. "No," he said. "I would not."_

"And until then?" Zevran asked.

"Until then? I suppose we'll have to find ways to entertain ourselves."

Zevran grinned, and when the Warden turned, he rolled against him so that they were cleaved together. The Warden twisted in his arms, and Zevran found scars on him, new ones striping his shoulder and his hip and halfway up his back. There were smaller ones on his arms, one curving all the way around his elbow, and he murmured that he had once been foolish enough to fall off his father's roof in the Alienage and tumble against something sharp. Zevran laughed and kissed him again, deep and lingering, until the Warden yielded under him. Slowly and patiently, he explored the pale contours of the Warden's body. He found that kissing the hollow of Darrian's hip made him inhale sharply, that smoothing both hands up the inside of his thighs made him shudder.

"Zevran," the Warden said, and his name came out heavy and breathless. "Stop teasing."

"Teasing? This is not teasing, my Grey Warden. This is seducing. Exploring. Learning."

"Learning?" Darrian's back arched delightfully, and he turned his face into the sheets. "Learning what?"

"How I might make you lose yourself," Zevran murmured back. "Now, stop fretting, and let me enjoy you."

* * *

><p>Lanterns hung from the arches and threw small spots of light against the stone beneath. Alistair ran the whetstone down his sword again and eyed the edge of the blade, not quite satisfied. The silence was strange here, he thought, the air all still and sluggish and stifled by the dreadful weight of the stone.<p>

Ten days ago at the Proving, in the huge round arena, he had fought beside Darrian until each breath had come uneven and rapid and his eyes stung with sweat. Even here, in the high-roofed guest chambers, his shirt clung to his shoulders and he was too aware of each breath against his lips.

The door swung open, and he looked up in time to see Darrian stalk across the threshold, his head down and one hand latched around his sword hilt.

"So," Alistair said, and mustered a smile. "Did you get the dwarf to agree on a time to go?"

"Yes. This afternoon."

The elf's voice was terse and bitten-off, and he quartered the room with sharp, snapping steps. Alistair laid his sword and whetstone down, and quietly, he said, "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"We're getting somewhere," Alistair said. "Finally, I will admit, but we are."

"Yes, and we get to go down into the Deep Roads," Darrian flung back at him. He stopped, and his hands clenched around his belt. "I'm sorry. I'm not…we've been played with, and now we have to go _there_."

"I know," Alistair said, and something twisted in his belly. The Deep Roads, the emptiness beneath the earth, and he would have to go there, go there with Darrian and the dwarf until they found Caridin's Cross and whatever lay after that. "I don't like it either."

"You and me," Darrian said. "You, me, Shale, and the dwarf. No one else."

"Yes." It was safer, he knew, so much safer not to bring the others, not into the blighted places where the darkspawn lived.

"I'm frightened," Darrian said, close to a whisper. As if to distract himself, he unbuckled his sword belt, dropped it onto the table. "I've been able to convince myself that we're alright on the surface. I don't like it down here, and I don't want to go any deeper."

"I know it doesn't help, but if it's any consolation at all, I'm absolutely terrified."

"No, it doesn't help," the elf replied, and the corners of his mouth moved slightly.

"We got through everything else."

"Blind luck."

"_And_ my overwhelming courage."

The elf was still pacing, his heels striking hard against the stone. "That, too."

"It will be alright."

"Will it?"

Alistair nodded, but when he searched for something to say, the words died in his throat.

* * *

><p>"No," Zevran said. "I am going with you, and that is all there to this matter."<p>

"Don't argue."

"I am not arguing. I am telling."

"Zevran," Darrian said, and turned away.

"No. You will not close me out of this."

"You're not a Grey Warden."

"The _dwarf_ is not a Grey Warden."

Darrian spun, his blue eyes on fire amid the sharp angles of his face. "The dwarf is the one with the paragon wife gone missing somewhere near Caridin's Cross. I am going with him and with Alistair and with Shale and we will be fine."

"While we wait here? Forgive me, my Warden, but the ale here bores me on the surface. Why would whatever they drink down here beneath the earth tempt my sophisticated palette?"

"Find something that will," Darrian snarled.

"Tell me why."

"The blood. The _blood_, Zevran. The blood in the darkspawn that is poisonous, the blood we are _so very careful_ to clean off our weapons every day that we are ambushed."

"Oh, so now you care? _Now_ you care that this blood and this taint of yours will trouble me? _Now?_" He could hear his own voice turn brittle, and he did not care. "Every other day was inconsequential, was it?"

"No." Darrian's fingers curled. "No, it wasn't. The Deep Roads are full of them. There won't be time…Zevran, I am not going to take you down there only for you to swallow a gallon of darkspawn blood and have it change you."

"Ah, my Warden." Softer, he said, "I can look out for myself. And of all the strange things I have had in my mouth over the years, I won't be adding darkspawn blood to that list, by the gallon or the glass."

Darrian turned away, braced both hands against the span of the mantelpiece. "I don't like it down here. I don't like the way the air doesn't move."

"You're evading."

"The deeper you go, the worse it gets. Least that's what Oghren said." Darrian's head turned, and the flamelight swam in his eyes. "You're staying."

Zevran closed the distance between them and slipped his fingers into the Warden's loose black hair. "Let me come with you."

"No."

He increased the pressure of his fingertips against the back of Darrian's neck, and grinned when heard the Warden's slight sigh.

"Zev," he said, reproachfully. "That's a poor attempt at seduction."

"Oh? I can try harder, if you like." He urged the Warden around, and slowly, he wound his fingers through the thick black strands again. "Let me go with you."

"No."

"I will not stay here."

"Why?" He nipped at the ends of Zevran's fingers. "Because we spent a few days in bed and now you can't _bear_ to be without me?"

"It is about my oath," Zevran said, and the words spilled out, trembling and cold and honest. "My _oath_. To keep you safe and watch over you. How can I do that from here, if you go away from me into the Deep Roads?"

"I don't know," Darrian said, and Zevran felt the slow shudder of his exhalation. "If something happens down there, then…"

"Nothing is going to happen."

Some of the tension emptied from the Warden's shoulders, and mutely, he turned his face into Zevran's hand. His lips trembled against Zevran's palm, and he murmured, "It had better not."

Deliberately fast, Zevran hooked one foot behind Darrian's ankle and toppled him. He heard the Warden's startled laugh. He landed on top of the Warden, knees either side of his hips. He caught Darrian's wrists and swung them above his head. He leaned over him until he could feel each of the Warden's breaths against his mouth, uneven and warm.

"We're to be leaving soon?"

"Yes," Darrian said, and rolled his hips up.

"Well then," Zevran said, and kissed the Warden's mouth, and his jaw, and the fluttering pulse in his throat. "We don't have much time, do we?"

Darrian twisted, and rolled them both other, his crossed wrists pressing down against Zevran's. Delightfully trapped, Zevran shifted so that the weight of Darrian's thighs pressed between his.

"No," Darrian said, and tightened his grip on Zevran's hands. "We don't."

* * *

><p>Darrian shouldered the weight of his pack and tried to quell the twisting unease that had lodged in his stomach. His sword was clean and their supplies were tidied away and his leathers gleamed, recently brushed. He had Wynne's salves and potion bottles, and Leliana's demand to be back soon and Sten's brisk assurance that he would look out for the others while they waited.<p>

"My Warden," Zevran said, and adjusted the balance of the daggers at his waist. "You are ready?"

"Not at all," he mumbled back. He swallowed and crossed the threshold before he could convince himself otherwise. Outside, he found Alistair leaning against the wall, Shale towering beside him, and a bemused expression on his face.

"What happened to me, you, Shale and the dwarf?"

Darrian growled something, almost inaudible. "He's useful."

"Indeed I am," Zevran said, and smirked. "And if you really want, I can tell you all about what I _did_ to him to convince him that I would be equally useful down here."

"No, thank you," Alistair muttered. "You're sure?"

_No,_ Darrian thought. _Not sure at all. _"Let's see if we all get back alive, and then I'll answer."

* * *

><p>Torches lit the way into the Deep Roads, and the guards there bowed and stepped away from them. Darrian looked at the high curve of the stone above, and the way the shadows crawled across dips and hollows. Against his mouth, the air was dry and hot. The dwarf, Oghren, had already muttered something about there being lanterns in some chambers deeper in, and shafts hewn clear through the stone so that the daylight could trickle in, faded and full of dust.<p>

"Hey," Oghren said, and nudged him. "You done standing around and gawping at the walls?"

He considered sniping back at the dwarf, but the torch smoke was acrid, and his heartbeat was jumping, so he settled for muttering, "Yes, thank you, so much."

He hesitated a moment longer, and then he was moving, stepping into the shadows until the maw of the tunnel fell behind. Soft light fell from small lamps, touching the edges of the stone corridor. The tunnel plunged down, steep and narrow, and in the strange, flickering half-darkness, he could not tell how long they had walked. Columns rose up on both sides, and between them, the road led away into the darkness. When he felt the strain down the backs of his legs and across his shoulders, he called a halt. They followed the dwarf past high columns and away from the wide spread of the road and through a gap in the stone. Beneath the low, scooped-out shelf of rock, the ground was rougher, and the press of the stone made Darrian's skin prickle.

They made no fire, and the small lanterns threw yellow light against the slope of the rocks. He saw tiny white specks glittering there, and almost absently, he touched them. He unslung his pack and sank back on his heels. Somewhere nearby, he heard Zevran and Oghren as they bickered over who might share sentry duty.

Quietly, Alistair sat beside him and pressed a waterskin into his hands. "Can I ask you something?"

Darrian tipped his head back against the stone. Deliberately, he waited until Zevran's footsteps vanished somewhere near the mouth of the small cave. "Can I guess what it is?"

"You and Zevran," Alistair said, as hushed. He sat, his back hunched awkwardly beneath the arch of the stone.

"Yes," Darrian said, and mustered up a grin. "Am I that obvious?"

"No, I just, you and Zevran, together…"

"Relax," he said, and clipped the man's shoulder. "At least this way I won't be competing with you for Morrigan's affections."

"Oh, Maker, you're evil."

"Don't tell me you didn't guess?"

"Maybe," Alistair said, wryly. "Things you said. Or _didn't_ say. So is this the part where I pretend to be your father and tell you to be careful?"

"Alistair, I'm as old as you are."

"You _look_ younger."

"Of course I do," Darrian said, and grinned properly. "I'm an elf. We're all devastatingly beautiful and it's just _impossible_ to guess how old we are."

"Oh, very funny." Alistair's mouth moved into a slow smile, and he added, "Be careful, alright?"

Whatever he wanted to say dried up, and he met Alistair's smile and said, "Course I will."

* * *

><p>He could feel them in the walls and in the stone beneath his feet and in the heavy, rank air that filled his mouth. The darkspawn lived down here and died down here, and they sought out the songs of the old gods beneath the earth and raised them. The first night, he dreamed of their fires, and the way they ran in their twisting tunnels, and he woke crying out.<p>

"Darrian," Zevran murmured, and slipped both arms around his shoulders. "It was a dream, my Warden. Nothing more."

He said nothing, and turned into the welcome circle of Zevran's embrace. He let the Crow soothe him with hands threading through his hair and rubbing across his shoulders. He did not sleep again that night, and when they cleared the camp and prepared to move on, he saw Alistair, his face all ashen and his mouth tight.

"I know," Alistair said, when Darrian turned to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, and tried for a smile. "Not your fault."

"I know. It's just…" The man shook his head. "I wish I knew more about it. I wish I could tell you more."

"I know." He clasped Alistair's shoulder. "Come on. We shouldn't linger here."

The second night, he thought he heard them, the darkspawn, thought he heard their claws and their feet against the stone. He thought he heard them screaming, and when he jolted out of his half-sleep, nothing but the firelight met him.

He jerked the blankets aside and desperately, he tried to steady his own breathing. He pressed his hands over his eyes and thought of the small room he had slept in until the day his father woke him for his wedding. Four walls and a window and the sunlight slanting in, and at the loudest part of the day, the wind brought in the smell of the mud and the grime and the green leaves that curled around the vhenadahl.

His bare feet brushed the stone, and he cringed. Clumsily, he heaved his boots on, and fumbled with his sword belt. At the fire, he found Alistair, his arms wrapped around his shins and his eyes on the gap in the stone. He looked at Alistair and saw his own thoughts in the man's eyes, in the hunched, rigid way the man was sitting. So he sat silently, and waited out the darkness, and kept his eyes on the small, fitful flames.


	4. Abyss

_A big thank you to everyone who's following, reviewing and reading this story. As usual, Bioware owns most of it. **  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Four – Abyss**_

Fourteen days they marched through the darkness, and Alistair was certain his armour stank of darkspawn blood and darkspawn death. They lived in the spaces between the rocks, he thought, for there was surely no other way they could do this, leap from the gloom and attack so often and in such numbers. The strange ache in his chest sharpened, and he knew that Darrian felt it as well, because whenever he looked at the elf, his face was blank and tight and exhausted.

The high columns of Ortan Thaig rose above him, and he found himself watching the play of the pale light that fell through the shafts above. Pools shone between the rocks, unmoving and deep. He saw small stone houses, their windows empty and dark, and he wondered how long it had been since the living walked the pathways here.

When Darrian finally called a halt, Alistair shucked his pack and sighed. The light was soft, and he supposed there was no need for a fire. He touched the solid edge of the column, let his fingers sink into the strange shapes carved into it.

"No," Darrian said, somewhere behind him, his voice frayed. "It is not alright."

"There was no time," Zevran responded, his accent lilting and light. "There were many of them and we ran, if I recall correctly, my Warden."

"Your leathers are _soaked_ with it," Darrian snapped. "Off, now, and clean them. _Now_, Zevran."

Alistair said nothing, only pressed his fingertips against his scalp. He heard the Crow's amused response, and the jangle of buckles snapping open. He turned away, and slowly, he made his way across the uneven ground. He sat beside one of the small pools and stared at the tired grey blur of his own reflection.

He remembered the witch's home, and the knifing grief, and the cold taste of his own tears, when he had hoped that he was alone enough.

_He dragged himself upright and winced. His head felt strapped with iron, and his eyelids stung. He stared at the floorboards for a long moment, and wondered if he should simply burrow back beneath the sheets and try to will himself into sleep. _

No_, he thought. He should not – _could_ not, not yet – not while the young elf was somewhere outside, somewhere lost in his own thoughts. _

_In the grey dusk he found Darrian, turned away from the soft glow of the windows and sitting cross-legged beside the pool. Alistair paused behind him and listened to the wind, rattling through the reeds. _

_ "Got everything packed?" Darrian asked. _

_ "Yes." Alistair closed the distance, flopped down beside him. "I can't…Maker above. It feels so strange." _

_ "Yes."_

_ He fell silent. He did not know what to say, what else he could say. He thought of Duncan and Cailan and the Wardens and the men in the valley and his throat thickened. He remembered the terrible, driving pain of the arrow that had thudded into his chest, and the shocking impact of the other one, the one that had bitten into his shoulder and spun him. He remembered how Darrian had screamed, and he had wondered if that meant the elf was already dying. _

_ He remembered somehow forcing himself onto his side, and then onto his knees, and how he had seen Darrian, hunched over and bleeding, blood running in glossy ribbons down his side and his chest and one thigh. Blood falling in thick droplets from his mouth. Blood turning the stone all shiny beneath them. _

_ "I left Denerim because I killed a noble's son," Darrian said, and turned his head into the press of the wind. _

_ "You…what?"_

_ "He was the Arl of Denerim's son. He came to the Alienage with his friends and he took my cousin Shianni and he took the girls my cousin Soris and I were supposed to marry."_

_"Supposed to marry?" Alistair turned, aware that he must have sounded foolish. "Maker above, Darrian. I…do you want to talk about it?"_

_ "They had come to the Alienage to marry us. We'd never met them before that day."_

_ "What happened?"_

_ "I made Soris come with me, and we went to the arl's estate, and we found the girls and got them out. They had them all afternoon, and by the time we got there, it was, well. They'd been hurt. So Soris started to get them out of the estate, and I killed the arl's son." _

_ "I'm sorry," Alistair said helplessly. "I didn't…Duncan never said anything."_

_ "Of course he didn't."_

_ "So why..?"_

_ "The guards came for me, and Duncan spoke up for me."_

_ "Thank you for telling me." _

_ One side of the elf's mouth moved. "I thought perhaps you'd want to know what kind of Warden you're stuck with."_

_ "Don't do that," Alistair told him warningly. "Don't even bother. I've been blaming myself solid for the past two nights, and all I've achieved is no sleep, swollen eyes, a sore throat, and a headache." _

_ The elf laughed, uneven and rough. "Could your jokes have worse timing?"_

_ "Probably. If I tried."_

_ The elf laughed again, and he turned properly towards Alistair. "No need. Alistair?"_

_ "Yes?"_

_ "Thank you." _

"Alistair?" Darrian said, in the same hushed voice they all seemed to be using down here, down here where the silence swallowed words.

"Yes?"

"Oghren thinks he's found Branka's trail."

"He _thinks_," Alistair echoed, and almost immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry."

Darrian shook his head. "I don't like it either. There's less here. Given how many people Oghren said she took with her. There's not much left here."

"Maybe the darkspawn came through this place after them. She's been missing a while."

"I know."

"The Anvil of the Void," Alistair said, and grimaced. "Could it have a less inspiring name?"

Darrian barked out a laugh. "Probably. You want first watch?"

"More than I want third watch," Alistair said, and he let Darrian heave him up to his feet and away from the small pool.

* * *

><p>In the quiet after they had eaten, Darrian caught Zevran's wrist and led him away from the others, up the low slope and past the last of the stone houses. He ignored whatever it was that Oghren bellowed after them and tugged the assassin around and behind the corner.<p>

"Come here," Darrian said, and dug tired fingers under Zevran's loose hair. He was aware of the assassin's hands on him, and impatiently, he dragged Zevran down onto the ground with him. Desperately, he rolled beneath Zevran, sliding his hands along the assassin's sides. He murmured Zevran's name, and when he ground Zevran's hips hard against his own, the assassin caught his chin.

"My Warden," he breathed into Darrian's ear. "Slow down." He turned Darrian's head, and the movement of his mouth was soft and damp. "There is no need to rush this. Let me please you."

He knotted his hands at the back of Zevran's neck. "Is that what this is?" he asked, and wondered at the strange, wrenching ache in his belly. "You pleasing me?"

"Is that not what all pleasure of this kind is? Two people pleasing each other?"

"Yes, but," he said, and turned his head so that his cheek slid along Zevran's. "Yes."

Afterwards, they lingered until Darrian realised that the stone was chill beneath his bare skin, that his shoulder was uncomfortably lodged against something hard. He shoved up to his knees and watched as Zevran straightened his leathers, his hands quick and precise on dangling laces.

"Zev, maybe you could…" To distract himself, he grabbed for his shirt, heaved it on. "Maybe we could stay together. Tonight."

"Are there nights down here, my Warden?"

"You know what I mean. We could sleep. Together. Around here, maybe. Away from the others."

"Away from the others?" Zevran's golden eyebrows rose, and his teeth flashed in a vicious grin. "I'm to be hidden, am I? No, my Warden. It is far too dangerous down here, is it not? Even _I_ do not care to be roused from sleep by darkspawn."

* * *

><p>The tunnels twisted deeper and became the place Oghren called the Dead Trenches. There, Darrian spent the nights – or what he thought were the nights – with his arms around his shins. They stole keys from the ghosts of long-dead dwarves and in a cave where the walls were slick and crimson, they found a dying dwarf woman who stank of the darkspawn. She spoke strange words that made his skin tighten, and her dark, bloodshot eyes looked through him.<p>

When he led the others away from her and the fading echoes of her voice, his spine was stiff. His fingers slipped inside his gloves, and he knew his stance was too rigid, too wary. Zevran's shoulder brushed his, and he bit back the instinctive need to lurch away.

_The darkspawn,_ he thought, and the thought of them made his head buzz. They were _here_, he knew, on the other side of the stone walls. He remembered the rolling green of the Wilds, and how they had fallen beneath his blade, shrieking monsters that bled black blood onto the moss.

_That was different_, he thought. _He_ had been different. His mind had been all full of Soris and Shianni and the arl's son and he not really seen the darkspawn, not really, as they crumpled beneath his sword. They were monsters, no more, monsters that snapped and hissed and died, and somewhere behind his eyes, they all wore the nobleman's face.

"Oh, Maker," Alistair murmured. "What _is_ that?"

Darrian looked across the blood-wet stone and saw it, and even before the roaring in his head rose up again, he knew that it was the broodmother. Hespith had called it that. Hespith's words all harsh with her madness, and she had spoken of it, this thing that had once been a dwarven woman.

_"They remade her in their image. And then she made more of them."_

Laryn, Darrian thought. The woman's name had been Laryn, Hespith had said, before she had been forced into this change, this change that had made her grow and swell and forget herself and birth more of them.

The broodmother's head turned, eyes fierce and golden amid the rolling flesh of its face. For a terrible, frozen instant, he stared at it. Its hands lifted, dripping and heavy, and he knew he needed to be doing something, moving, anything.

"Darrian!" Alistair's shoulder cannoned into his, driving him to one side.

He remembered to call out to Oghren and Zevran to stay back, to not get themselves too near to its jaws or its grasping hands. He was aware of Alistair's solid shape at his shoulder, the sweep of the man's shield as he charged. Under his feet, the ground was slippery and treacherous and he knew he should slow himself down, watch his footing. But the thing itself – the broodmother, the thing that birthed the darkspawn – was above him, moving, the hands reaching down for him.

He spun beneath one heavy, clenched hand. The motion took him back up to his feet and he whirled again, forcing the point of his sword into the thing's wrist. When it howled, he held on, held on until it wrenched free, and the thick black blood ribboned his sword.

"Darrian, _move_," Alistair shouted.

He complied, shoving himself away fast enough that he stumbled. Alistair twisted, moving into the space in front of him, and the broodmother's closed hand thumped uselessly against his shield. Alistair braced himself, and the upward swing of his sword sheared into the thing's arm again. Darrian matched his next stroke, driving his sword into the thing's rippling flank until the blade was half-buried. The broodmother screamed, head flinging back, and the sudden pain of it shocked through him.

"Oghren, get _back_," Alistair snapped.

But the dwarf's axe rose and fell again, and Darrian saw it as the edge sank into the broodmother's trembling flesh. He saw the oily fall of its blood, and when he looked up at it, its jaws gaped. Shale's fist slammed into it again and again, and its huge head sagged back.

"That's it," Alistair said, between heaving breaths. "Yes? That's it?"

Darrian stared at it, and the blood that ran out of its mouth and onto the mounds of flesh below. "I think so."

Oghren spun his axe, jabbed the haft at the broodmother's slack arm. "She's done."

_She_, Darrian thought, and his throat closed up. _She_ had been a dwarf, and she had been changed, forcibly and terribly. Blindly, he sheathed his sword and ignored the awful wet noise the fouled blade made. He swallowed again and muttered to Alistair, "Get them cleaned up. I'll check the tunnels ahead."

He turned away before he could see Alistair's face change, before he could see the man wonder whether to ask if he was alright. He curled his fingers against his palms and blundered through the winding tunnels. The salt in his eyes splintered the pale light from the small lanterns. The few darkspawn who hurtled at him dived too quickly at his sword, and he watched them fall, their throats opened and bleeding.

He found a small alcove, hollowed out at the far end, and he crawled through, hating the scrape of the stone against the small of his back. A single shaft of pale light cut the darkness here, and while he waited, he cupped his hands beneath it.

Eventually he heard their footsteps, hurried and brisk against the stone, and Shale explaining something to Oghren about Honnleath.

"There you are," Zevran said, and something in his smile was shadowed. "You shouldn't wander so far, my Warden. Not down here."

Darrian turned away, and he heard the soft sound of the assassin following him. He crossed the small chamber, and touched the curving rock. "I want to be alone."

"As you would have it."

Sidelong, he watched the assassin go, watched the grey light as it slanted across the assassin's narrow shoulders. Absurdly, he wondered if he should call Zevran back, should ask him to stay. He pressed his hand against the rock again, hard enough that his fingertips turned numb. He thought of the broodmother and the fetid air and the fierce glow of its eyes and the panic welled up. He swallowed, and closed his eyes until his breathing steadied.

Much later, after Oghren coaxed a tiny fire into life, and Shale stood wordlessly on watch, he heard Alistair's cautious approach.

"You're not hurt?"

"No."

"Good."

Darrian stared at his own fingers, curled against the stone. "You're not either?"

"No."

"It was horrible."

"Yes, it was," Alistair said. "I didn't…I've never seen anything like it. I know that sounds stupid."

"It doesn't. Do you know something?"

"What?"

"I miss my dog."

Alistair laughed, rough and slightly strained. "To hide behind?"

"Well, he is big enough."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"No," Alistair said. "I know what you mean."

Darrian saw the way the man's mouth creased downwards at the corners, the way his feet scraped unevenly against the stone. "But?"

"But Oghren's cooking something."

"And _that_ is how you hope to restore my appetite?" Tiredly, Darrian let himself smile, and when Alistair gestured him back across the small stone chamber, he followed. "Well, I'm convinced."

* * *

><p><em>The stone beneath his feet was uneven, and when he knelt to touch it, the coldness of it bit into his fingers. Above him was only darkness, and every time he tried to see through it, his head pounded. He knew it was there, somewhere, the thing that looked like a dragon. It flew beneath the high domed roofs of the caverns, he was sure. He looked up and up again, and when he saw it, he looked into the strange light of its eyes until it rushed towards him and the great sweep of its wings filled his vision. <em>

He woke to the pressure of Zevran's arms around his waist and Zevran's mouth against his bare shoulder.

"It was here," he said, and his tongue scraped heavily against the back of his teeth. "It was _here_. I saw it."

"No," the assassin murmured. "Just a dream, my Warden. Another dream."

"Yes." He waited, eyes half-closed, until the deep, throbbing ache in his head ebbed a little. "Thank you."

"No need," Zevran said, and his lips parted in a crooked smile. "After you kicked me awake, I thought it best not to let you thrash around quite so loudly."

"Oh. Did I?"

"Twice, and painfully, my Warden."

He watched the slow crawl of the flamelight across the backs of Zevran's hands, slender and nicked with small scars. "And how is it that you were close enough for me to kick you?"

"Ah, well." The assassin shrugged. He rested his forehead against Darrian's shoulder, and his breathing hitched. "Perhaps you were right. Perhaps it would be better to be together. Down here."

Darrian drew the assassin down beside him, and they lay like that, the rumpled blankets between them. Darrian leaned his head against the crook of Zevran's elbow. Slowly, he traced the dark twist of the ink that followed the curve of Zevran's cheek. "Yes," he said. "Perhaps it would."

* * *

><p>In the darkness, Caridin's anvil glowed. Each rise and fall of the hammer sent sparks tumbling in a livid rush onto the stone below. Carefully, Alistair unslung his shield, leaned it against the wall. He rolled his shoulders, felt the pull and twinge of exhausted muscles. Across the rise of the stone, he saw Shale, standing still and poised and watching every strike of Caridin's hammer.<p>

Further away, Oghren sat silently, his axe flat on the floor and his chin cradled on crossed hands. Silently, Alistair sat beside him and stared down at some point between his own boots.

"Stupid woman," Oghren said, and heaved out a sigh. "Always had been. Brilliant, but stupid."

Alistair remembered her, the dwarf woman who had been Oghren's wife, her face all twisted with her terrible madness. He remembered how they had found the others, the last of her house, all them dead and pale and shrunken in the tunnels. Past the final gateway, Caridin himself had waited, Caridin with his anvil that had made stone monsters of breathing dwarves.

"Suppose this is the point where someone should say that it's better to know than not know," Oghren said in the same worn, tired voice. "Care to do the honours?"

"It's better to know," Alistair said. "At least, that's what they say."

"The dark down here does strange things to people. Spend long enough down here and it gets into you."

"I know."

"You would. That's what the Wardens are for, isn't it?"

"Sort of."

"Look." Oghren's head turned, the corners of his eyes creased and streaked with sweat. "What're you and the elf doing after?"

"After?"

"After we get this damn crown back to Harrowmont. Supposing none of us get ripped apart by the darkspawn."

"We'll be taking Harrowmont's pledge back with us to Arl Eamon," Alistair answered, and swallowed. "Long walk to Redcliffe."

"Facing off the Blight," Oghren said, and dug his fingers through his beard. "See, I _do_ listen."

Despite himself, Alistair laughed. "Have I ever said that you don't?"

"It's not what you say. It's the way you look at me." Oghren sighed again. "Need some company?"

"You don't want to stay here? In Orzammar, I mean. I don't know why you'd want to stay _here_."

"Nothing decent to eat down here. _Or_ in Orzammar, now I think of it."

"We'd be glad of the help," Alistair said. "If you're sure."

"Nothing left for me to do in Orzammar," Oghren muttered. He reached for his axe, and his fingers slipped clumsily along the haft. "Might as well help you lot beat some darkspawn into a nice pretty pulp."

"They're never pretty. In any shape."

"Redcliffe," Oghren said, musingly, and the word sounded strange and hollow. "What's there, then?"

"A castle." A castle and a lake and a choice he _just knew_ he was going to have to make, probably while Eamon looked at him with that steel-hard gaze.

"_I…look. I need to talk to you about something. Something important." _

_ Darrian looked up, his hands busy with a whetstone. "Right now?"_

_ "Please?"_

_ The elf nodded, and uncoiled to his feet. "Alright."_

_ Alistair led him away from the guttering fire, and he noticed the other elf, the assassin, the Crow, watching sidelong from where he sat with Leliana. When the trees crowded in on either side, and he knotted his hands together long enough to distract himself slightly, Alistair blurted, "You know I said my mother was a maid in Redcliffe castle?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "And that Arl Eamon raised me, right?"_

_ "Yes," Darrian said, in the same mild tone._

_ "Well, he wasn't my father, even though there were rumours."_

_ "You told me that."_

_ "That's because my father was King Maric," he said, and the words tumbled out in a clumsy rush. "Which made Cailan my brother. Half-brother." _

_ "You're…" Darrian's shoulders stiffened. "You're the son of the king."_

_ "Bastard son of the king."_

_ "Royal bastard," Darrian said, and his smile turned crooked._

_ "Oh, yes, very funny." Alistair rubbed his knuckles across his forehead. "You're angry."_

_ "You lied to me."_

_ "I know," he said, and ached. He had not meant to, not really, but the weight of it was terrible and whenever he tried to speak of it, his tongue turned heavy and he tasted sweat on his lips. "It's just…now you know, you'll be different."_

_ "_I'll_ be different? I'm not the one walking around Ferelden with the blood of Maric in my veins."_

_ "Thanks," he said, sourly. "I meant you'll be different to me. Around me."_

_ "No, I won't. I might want to beat you stupid because you thought keeping this secret was a good idea, though."_

_ "I know. I didn't – I just wanted you to think I was me."_

_ "You _are_ you."_

_ "You don't understand." He turned, sharply, and jammed his hands into his belt. "It changes everything. Queen Anora will…I don't know what. I know it changes everything. It will change how Arl Eamon will be with me. With us. Being Wardens, I mean. If he's even still alright."_

_ Darrian tipped his head back against the slope of the tree. "Yes. I know. Let's get to the castle and work out what's going on inside before we even think about Arl Eamon and Queen Anora, yes?"_

_ "Yes," Alistair said. "Oh. Maker. I hated telling you that. And I didn't lie to you. I just didn't tell you."_

_ "I once tried that on my father," Darrian said, and he grinned. "Apparently neglecting to mention is even worse when brought up as an argument as to why you _shouldn't_ get punished." _

_ "I'm sorry. I just – there was so much going on. I should have said something after Ostagar. Or at Lothering. Or…I don't know." _

_ "It's alright. I understand." For a long moment, the elf simply regarded him through level blue eyes. "How did you know I was angry? I thought I was being subtle."_

_ "You go all still when you're angry." He shrugged. "I prefer the old-fashioned pacing around and slamming doors thing, personally."_

_ "Even when there's no doors to slam?" Darrian shoved away from the tree. He searched Alistair's face again, and said, "No more secrets?"_

_ "No more secrets," he said, and the shaky relief of it unwound through him. _

_ "Alistair?"_

_ "Mmm?"_

_ "Thanks for telling me," Darrian said, and his voice roughened. "For trusting me." _

_ "I can tell you all about my secret obsession with fine cheeses as well, if you want."_

_ "That's not a secret, your Highness."_

_ "Oh, you are such a _child_ sometimes."_

_ "I know." Darrian elbowed past him, and the smile he threw over his shoulder was enviably light. "Come on. I'm hungry and I want dinner before the dog eats everything." _

"Hey," Oghren said, and elbowed him. "You alive in there?"

"Yes." Alistair pressed folded fingers against his temples. "I think so."


	5. Stars

__A huge thank-you to everyone who's reading, following and reviewing or has this story on alerts or favourites. Thank you all so much. Little belongs to me, and reviews are always welcome. _**  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Five – Stars**_

In Darrian's hands the crown was heavy and cold. The lamplight swam across its curves and lines, and he brushed his fingers across the severe, solid edges. _A crown for a dwarven king_, he thought. A king whose name had been mentioned first amid the shimmering heat and high columns of Orzammar, and _that_ had been why Darrian had sought him out. The quickest way – or the quickest way he could see – since _he knew_ that on the surface, Loghain waited at Denerim, and somewhere in the wilds, the Blight grew.

Silently, he wrapped the crown and jammed it into his pack. The weight of it caught against his shoulders awkwardly when he straightened up. As wordlessly, he nodded to the others and strode beneath the rock archway, and out into the darkness again. The tunnels twisted away from the empty chamber, and when his shoulder brushed the low spread of the stone, he thought of Caridin, and the anvil, and the terrible knowledge of how living flesh had been made into stone.

He remembered Branka's face, her eyes dark and rolling and ribboned with blood. Darrian's sword had sent her sprawling, and then beneath Zevran's blades she had died, shuddering out her life on the blank stone.

He remembered Duncan, and those first, blind nights outside the city. He remembered sitting with his shoulders flat against the rough whorls of a tree. He remembered staring at the twining fire, his stomach tightening every time the branches rattled, every time the embers blew, every time he thought of the estate, and the arl's dead son.

_"I knew your mother, once," Duncan said. His voice was measured and calm, as it had been since that day in the square, and his eyes were full of the leaping red reflections of the fire. "She was a good woman."_

_ Darrian searched for his own voice, and said, "Yes." Before his nerve could desert him, he asked, "Why did you do it?"_

_ "Why did I do what?"_

_ "Help me."_

_ "Is this helping you?" Duncan's mouth softened into a small smile. "That is not what I recall you saying three days ago."_

_ "Why did you do it?" Darrian said again. _

_ "Your mother Adaia had a way about her."_

_ "I'm not her."_

_ "No, you are not." Duncan folded square, bluff hands across his knee. "Would it have been better to stay?"_

_ "I don't know." But he did know, and he knew it because he had killed the arl's son slowly, so slowly he had been able to count the man's breaths as he died. "What do you think?"_

_ "I think that I needed a recruit. I think that I needed a recruit who might do what is needed, whatever that might be." _

_ "Whatever that might be. What happens at Ostagar, then?"_

_ "We will see." Duncan sighed. "That is all we can do."_

_ "And if that is not enough?"_

_ "Then we find some other way." _

* * *

><p>The dreams chased him from sleep and he ordered the others on faster. Every day he knelt and cleaned his sword and his leathers and stared at the darkspawn blood that clung to his hands. Once he lifted his fingers to his lips and the scent of the blood flooded his mouth.<p>

"No, my Warden, do not," Zevran said, and very gently clasped his wrist. As patiently, the assassin found spare cloths and stayed with him beside the small pool until his hands were scrubbed clean.

"There," Zevran said. He lifted Darrian's hand, white and cold, and kissed his palm. "Much better, yes?"

"Yes," he said, and shivered when the teasing warmth of Zevran's tongue lapped at the water droplets. "Oh. Zevran. We can't…"

"Oh, I know." He kissed the tips of Darrian's fingers in turn and added, "I do not intend to abandon you entirely, my Warden. Not even down here."

Darrian moved, turning until his forehead was pressed against Zevran's, his arms around the assassin. Zevran's shoulders stiffened. Fiercely, his mouth worked against Darrian's until their teeth clashed awkwardly. Darrian clung to him and felt the uneven flutter of the pulse at his throat.

"We need," Darrian said, and coughed. "We need to be moving on."

"Yes," Zevran murmured. His fingers traced Darrian's chin, the slope of his cheekbone. "We do."

Reluctantly, he wrested himself out of Zevran's arms. The tunnel looped on ahead, and he gestured the others on faster, and faster again when he heard the darkspawn behind the high stone walls, their claws and their voices and the hard rushing sound of their breathing.

The strange nights passed too slowly, and more than once he found himself watching Zevran, curled up in blankets and with his head pillowed on one crooked arm. The assassin slumbered lightly when he slept at all. Two days later, Zevran stirred and smiled and raked one hand through tousled golden hair.

"Your eyes are upon me again, my Warden," he said. "You enjoy watching me, do you?"

Darrian dug his fingertips against his palms. He wanted to close the space between them, wanted to pull Zevran against him until they were cleaved together, skin to skin. "Yes," he said, and wondered at the strange, aching lightness in his belly. "I do."

* * *

><p>At the Chamber of the Assembly, Darrian pushed past the heralds at the doors. Beneath his leathers, his skin itched with grime and dirt and his own sweat. Without stopping, he strode onto the gleaming white marble floor and unlung his pack.<p>

"This is for you," he said, and his voice barely carried above the deshyrs' shouted questions. "Lord Harrowmont? This is yours, forged by the smith Caridin. Caridin," he said, louder. "Caridin who had been down there in the darkness too long."

He watched Harrowmont's fingers close on the crown, watched the way the dwarf's face slackened.

"This is…?"

"We watched him make it," Alistair said.

Darrian did not let go of the crown. "Now," he said, and did not look away from Harrowmont's narrowed, thoughtful eyes. "The treaty. Your dwarves will be ready to march to Redcliffe Castle to join with Arl Eamon's forces. As we agreed. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Your word?"

"My word upon it," Harrowmont said.

"You'll send emissaries to Redcliffe. Today."

"Yes. Thank you, Warden."

Darrian nodded and turned away, and half-heard Alistair asking about supplies. "Come on," he said. "I want to find the others and I want to get out of here."

"There's some things we need," Alistair said. "I'll sort them out and meet you later?"

Darrian nodded again, and tried to ignore the stupidly grateful relief that rushed through him. "Don't be too long."

The winding way back to the guest chambers seemed too far, and beside him, the others said nothing. His sword was a heavy, cold weight at his hip. When he lifted his hands, he could smell the darkness and the Deep Roads and the heavy press of the stone. Shivering, he pulled his gloves off and jammed them into his belt.

He opened the door, and when the dog barreled into him and took him off his feet, he laughed. He heard the others, Leliana demanding why they had taken so long, and Wynne asking after Alistair, and he ignored them. He wrapped both arms around the dog's muscled neck and sat there, happily pinned, his face pressed against the dog's shoulder. He rubbed his fingers into the thick fur again and again. He murmured something into the dog's ear, something useless and soft and aching.

"Well," Zevran remarked. "At least _someone _missed you."

"Very funny," Darrian muttered. Awkwardly, he extricated himself from the dog's limbs. "Did we miss anything exciting?"

"No," Wynne answered. "Though you do seem to have forgotten how to bathe properly in the time you've been away. Do you _know_ how filthy you are?"

He rolled his shoulders, felt his shirt pull away from his skin, bunched and sticky with sweat. "In great and terrible detail."

* * *

><p>Darrian quartered the room again and sighed. The thick carpet pushed up against his bare feet. "I still don't see why we couldn't have just <em>left<em>."

"Aside from the simple fact that your leathers should be burned rather than just brushed?" Zevran asked from where he perched on the rim of the bath, one hand swirling idly in the water. "Come here."

"We don't have much time."

"You'd be amazed at the things I can do quickly, my Warden. Now come here."

Darrian surrendered and yanked his breeches down. He kicked them aside and sank into the water, groaning at the wonderful, seeping heat.

"Besides, my Warden, the mountains outside are cold and harsh, and who would wish to face them with the blood of so many darkspawn _still_ on your clothes?"

"Fair point."

He closed his eyes and sank beneath the rippling surface until the water rushed into his ears. When he emerged again, the wet whorls of his hair curtained his eyes. He felt the brush of Zevran's fingers against his cheek, and heard the assassin's laugh when he swept his hair aside. Slowly, the assassin rubbed soft soap against his scalp, and the languid rhythm of his fingers made Darrian sigh.

"Very nice," Zevran murmured, and pressed a quick kiss against Darrian's temple. With the same unhurried patience, Zevran scrubbed the grime and the dirt from Darrian's skin. He lingered over Darrian's shoulders and hips and the inside of Darrian's wrists. "Now, my Warden. Make yourself presentable while I steal your water."

"I could stay and share it, if you like."

"You could," Zevran said, and turned Darrian's face to his. "But then, you keep telling me how quickly we must leave, do you not? I hardly think we'd be ready all too soon if I joined you in there, my Warden."

"Fair point, again," Darrian muttered.

Somehow he clamped dripping hands on the sides of the bath and heaved himself upright. He toweled himself dry and watched sidelong as Zevran shed the rest of his clothes. Dark bruises mottled the assassin's shoulders, and a long scrape tracked around his hip. Zevran eased into the water and submerged for a long, lazy moment. When he surfaced, he reached for the soap and worked the lather into the sodden tangles of his golden hair.

Darrian saw the water running in ribbons across the bowed arch of the assassin's back, and he swallowed and turned away. He dressed quickly, yanking clothes and clean leathers on over slightly damp skin. While he fussed with laces and buckles, he heard the soft sounds of Zevran sighing and dragging himself out of the tub again.

"Zevran," he said, when he turned round again. "Stop dripping on the carpet and get dressed. You evil bastard," he added, when the assassin smiled.

"Oh, you don't mean that." Deliberately slowly, the assassin stretched both arms above his head. "Do you?"

"I will if you don't get dressed," Darrian said, and his sudden, ebullient smirk spoiled his stern tone. "Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"You're right. You are useful."

"Of course I am." Zevran hooked up Darrian's discarded towel and idly slung it around his shoulders. "You should know that by now, my Warden."

* * *

><p>Darrian worked the last of the wrapped supplies into his pack and wondered how many times he done this over the past months, how many times he had tried to predict days walking under cold weather on short rations. The dog lipped gently at his hand and he wasted enough time to scratch beneath the dog's jaw.<p>

His hair was caught at the nape of his neck and still slightly damp, and when he stepped into the corridor with Zevran, Leliana threw him a knowing grin. He led the others through the twisting streets, and even when the ceiling opened up to the vast stone chamber that lead to the gates, he noticed that none of the dwarves called out to them or stopped them or asked after Oghren's presence. He supposed that they did not care, and neither did he, but even so, a strange, grudging part of him wondered at it.

At the gates, the guards inclined their heads, and one of them muttered something about Grey Wardens doing the right thing regardless of who they might be, and Darrian ignored them. He watched as the doors swung open, and the cold flooded across his tongue. Three more steps took him onto the ice-rimed stairs, and then he was walking down them, and away from the dwarven city, and into the buffeting press of the wind.

He breathed in the brisk chill of the mountain air and laughed. He knelt and scooped up a handful of snow, and still grinning, he heaved the whole lot of it at Zevran.

The assassin batted it aside and blinked. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Enjoying myself."

"It's _cold_."

"Because it's _snow_, Antivan."

He let his whole weight careen into Zevran's shoulder, and was rewarded with the wonderful sight of the assassin toppling full-length onto the ground, eyes widening and one arm flailing.

"That," Zevran said, and flicked snow from the loose ends of his hair, "Was a very nasty thing to do."

"Oh, I don't know," Alistair said, and grinned. "I quite enjoyed it."

"You would," Darrian retorted. He leaned down to cup another handful of snow, and Zevran grabbed his wrist and tugged. He overbalanced far too quickly, and ended up spitting snow from his lips. "Oh, _that_ was unfair."

Zevran uncoiled up to his feet, his face slightly flushed. He hauled Darrian up behind him. "Oh? And what might I do to gain your forgiveness?"

"Nothing we need to hear about," Wynne told him. The corners of her mouth creased, and she added, "Now, shall we go, if you're both finished?"

* * *

><p>Under the pale burn of late stars, Alistair sat with his arms wrapped around his shins. Overhead, he could see the dark arch of the trees, and the indigo ribbon of the sky above them. Each breath plumed past his lips. He heard soft footfalls somewhere behind, and when Darrian stepped into the small circle of the firelight, Alistair smiled.<p>

"Guess it's serious, then?"

"What is?"

"You and Zevran. Given that we put up one less tent than usual."

"It's warmer this way," Darrian said, and grinned.

"Oh, evade, then." Without rancour, Alistair added, "What is it?"

"I," the elf said, and stopped. He curled himself beside the fire, all lean limbs and disheveled hair. "That thing we saw. The thing they called the broodmother."

"Yes," Alistair said, and swallowed thickly.

"You'd never heard of anything like it?"

"No. I've also stopped wondering why there aren't many women Grey Wardens. I knew the Deep Roads were terrible, but I didn't…well. You know what I mean."

"Yes," the elf said. His fingers wreathed together and parted, then tangled together again. "And that's where we go when we die. Before we die."

"Hey," Alistair said. His stomach lurched, and desperately, he tried to ignore it. "Let's find the archdemon and kick its teeth in before we worry about dying."

Darrian laughed, breathless and strained. "Oh, yes. Let's do that. I can pick its teeth out of your feet afterwards."

"Of course we'd have to get it to lower its head somewhat so we could _get_ to its teeth."

"At no point did I say I was going to do this with you."

"Spoilsport," Alistair said.

"Alistair?"

"Mmm?"

"When we get to Redcliffe. What will you be saying to Eamon?"

"I have no idea," he responded, honestly. "I don't know. He'll want to call the Landsmeet as quickly as possible. I suppose we should do that. That would get us closer to Loghain."

"Denerim." Darrian's gaze dropped, and his whole frame stilled. "It seems so long since…well, since I was there properly."

"You'll want to see your father?"

"My…I don't know." Darrian's blue eyes darted. "I don't know. We didn't part in the best of ways. Nor on the best of terms."

"I'm sorry. Sometimes I just speak without thinking. I was thinking that if _my_ family were in Denerim I'd want to see them, but then I remembered that I'm not you and what happened to you was different. And not fun."

"You'd make a terrible elf. You're too big." The corners of Darrian's mouth sloped up. He pushed thin fingers into his hair and added, "I don't know. Maybe."

Alistair remembered that day in the old ruins at Ostagar, and how he had stood in the bright fall of the sunlight and waited for Duncan's newest discovery.

_For a long, lazy moment he stared up at the blue patches between the high spars of the stone above. The mage had left him alone, finally, and he could not suppress a small, pleased grin. He leaned against the wall and watched the play of the wind through the green ferns. He heard footsteps pattering up the steps, and a shadow slanted under the archway. He turned his head in time to see a dark-haired elf reach the top of the steps, hands curled at his sides and head bowed. _

_The elf was young_, _he noticed, young and wiry beneath his scuffed leather armour. He was also filthy, Alistair noticed next, the angles of his face blurred with dirt, and the thick fall of his black hair heavy and tangled. _

_ "You're Alistair?"_

_ "Yes." He smiled easily, and added, "And that makes you Duncan's new recruit?"_

_ The young elf nodded. His feet scraped against the ground. "Yes." _

_ Where, Alistair thought, where had Duncan found this elf? He was all coiled tension and exhausted pale blue eyes and Alistair wondered when he had last had a decent meal. "What's your name?" he asked, gently. _

_ "Darrian."_

_ "Darrian," he repeated. "Right. Come with me, and we'll get you some clean clothes and something to eat." _

_ "I thought," the elf said, and his eyes narrowed. "Don't we have things to do?"_

_ "Yes, but you look like you're about to fall over. You only just got here?" _

_ "Yes."_

_ As carefully, Alistair motioned him down the stairs. "You came from Denerim?"_

_ The elf's shoulders stiffened. "That's right."_

_ "I've been there a few times. Ever been this far away?"_

_ The elf stopped. His black eyebrows met, and he said, "No. I haven't."_

_ Alistair did not try and hurry him along, did not ask why he had paused again, all stiff shoulders and stubbornly clenched jaw. He did not try and close the space between them, did not try and break the thin silence. _

_ "You're," the elf said, and his head jerked up. "You've known Duncan long?"_

_ "A while now. A few months."_

_ "Is he always so…" The elf scowled. "Practical?"_

_ "Always," Alistair said. "Are you hungry?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "This time of day we've got cold meat and bread and stew and more cheese than you can shake a stick at. Which makes me happy." The elf blinked at him and said nothing, so Alistair added, "Maybe we should get you cleaned up first. What do you think?"_

_ "Whatever's best," the elf said. _

_ This time the elf moved quicker when Alistair gestured, and wordlessly he followed Alistair across the camp to the Grey Warden tents. He ducked around the back of the smithy, and motioned the elf past the two big dicing tables, and led him into the supply tent. He found fresh leathers and a clean shirt and peered at them sidelong. "Darrian? Come here. I need to see how tall you are."_

_ The elf's eyebrows knitted again. "All I need to do is clean my own clothes."_

_ "Yes, but then they'll need to dry, and I'm sure walking around half-naked would scare someone." He unearthed a smaller shirt and held it up against the elf's shoulders. "That'll do. Come on, we'll find you some hot water." _

_ He ushered the elf into one of the narrow tents nearby, and waited while two servants filled the round wooden tub. Afterwards, he swung the screen into place and said, "I'll wait outside. Clean yourself up. And take your time about it."_

_ For a long moment, the elf stared at the water, at the steam that twined above it. "Thank you," he said, quietly. _

_ Alistair inclined his head and ducked outside. Idly, he leaned against the side of a sloping stone and waited. The elf emerged again too quickly, the laces on the new shirt trailing at his wrists, and the collar wicking up the water from the sodden ends of his hair. Still, Alistair conceded that he was cleaner, the grime scrubbed from his face and his neck and his hands at least. _

_ "Feel better?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ Alistair lead the elf between the wagons and past the long wooden tables. He found a flat rock and said, "Sit down and I'll get you some food. Anything in particular you'd like?"_

_ "I don't," the elf said. "I mean, anything. Whatever." _

_ Alistair nodded. In the tent he grabbed a tray and two plates and heaped up cold meat and bread and cheese. He wondered if he should have ladled out a bowl of stew as well, and concluded that even if the elf was famished, he could fetch the stew later. He added two apples and when he presented the tray, the elf's blue eyes widened slightly. _

_ "I'll eat anything you don't," he said mildly. "You just looked, well. I don't like being hungry." _

_ "No." The elf ate quickly, thin fingers tearing the bread apart. "Thank you." He finished off both apples and most of the meat. Awkwardly, he tipped the tray towards Alistair and muttered, "You said something about cheese making you happy?"_

_ Alistair grinned. "See? This is the way everyone should make friends." _

* * *

><p>Through the tent flap, Zevran could see the pale grey dawn. Sprawled beneath him, Darrian breathed slowly, one hand wrapped in the assassin's hair. Lazily, Zevran curled himself closer, his cheek against the Warden's chest and their legs comfortably tangled.<p>

Zevran trailed his fingers along the edge of Darrian's hip, and asked, "Humans?"

"Two."

"Elves?"

"Including you?"

"Only if that changes your count considerably, my Warden."

"Two," Darrian said. "Including you."

"Which first?"

"Elf."

"Lucky elf," Zevran said, and kissed the nearest patch of soft skin he could reach. "Women?"

"Oh, stop it."

The Warden tugged a little harder at his hair, and he chuckled. "Forgive me."

"I don't even want to _think_ about your count."

He heard the smile in the Warden's voice and retorted, "Scandalised, are we?"

"Terribly. My innocence is bruised."

He shifted slightly so he could run his hand along the inside of the Warden's thigh. "You will wish to go to Denerim?"

Darrian stiffened. His fingers slipped out of Zevran's hair. "Yes. Eventually. Why? You're expecting a visit from the Crows, are you?"

_Yes_, he thought, and said, "Possibly."

"Will you be able to see them before they see you?"

"Maybe. I will be putting you in no danger, my Warden. Any trouble will be mine."

"_Ours_."

Beneath his ear, he could feel how the Warden's heartbeat had quickened. "There is no obligation, my Warden. If they come for me, I will deal with them."

"If," Darrian echoed. "_When_ they come for you. We always knew this, didn't we?"

"You will have other things to do, I am sure. This Landsmeet of yours springs to mind."

Darrian snorted, and his hands sank into Zevran's hair again. "You are allowed to ask for help, you know. Or you're allowed to accept it regardless."

"This was not part of my debt to you."

Darrian yanked his head up then, and he found himself looking into the Warden's fierce blue eyes. "You pick the strangest times for this kind of conversation, you know that? _This_ isn't part of your debt, or your oath, or anything else you think you owe me. If they come for you in Denerim, they'll be dealing with the both of us."

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"I don't know. I'm insane, apparently, and don't like the idea of my friends getting themselves into trouble."

"My Warden," Zevran said, and made himself grin. "I have been getting myself into trouble and out of it again with alarming regularity for many years now."

"I believe you." Darrian's thumbs smoothed along his jaw. "Tell me about the Crows."

"Let go of me and I might."

The Warden laughed and obeyed, and Zevran nestled himself back onto the Warden's chest. He traced small circles along Darrian's stomach with one finger. "If they find me, it will happen quickly. If I have the misfortune to be clumsy, or lazy, and find myself unaware of them, then they will win."

"You'll know who they are? I mean, in person?"

_"You're going?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "When?"_

_ "A few days."_

_ "I heard that you asked for it."_

_ "You heard correctly." He traced the lean shape of Taliesen's shoulder with his lips. _

_ "Why?"_

_ "Why not?"_

_ "Oh, play stupid, then." _

_Taliesen turned, and Zevran swept his hands down the man's chest. He toyed with the ties at the man's waist, then splayed his fingers across the hard, tensing stomach muscles above. _

"_Is this about her?"_

_For a brief, furious instant, Zevran froze. He summoned a smile, shook his head, and unsnarled the knots. He eased his hand into Taliesen's breeches, and when the man groaned, he said, "Not at all. I merely have the desire to see other places."_

"_Other places?" Taliesen's hips arched. "Zevran Arainai, you are a very bad liar."_

"_Oh, a criticism, is it?" He rolled on top of the man. Teasingly, he kissed his way down Taliesen's chest. "Never fear, my friend. I will return victorious and missing you and so very impatient for you, I am certain."_

_Taliesen's hands threaded through his hair. "Oh, yes?"_

_He knew the man's body almost as well as his own, almost as well as he had known hers. He worked Taliesen's breeches off with one hand, and he let the other one wander across his hip. He took Taliesen into his mouth, and when the man hissed and twisted, he did not change his slow, tortuous pace. _

"_Zevran, you filthy tease." _

"_Oh? I can stop, if you want."_

"_No," Taliesen growled. _

_He laughed, and under that deliberate, stroking pressure, Taliesen did not last long. When he gave in to a shuddering climax, Zevran turned him over and used his tongue and his lips and the small bottle of scented oil to prepare him. He almost let the man roll back over, but he remembered Rinna as the blood spilled from her throat, so he drove himself into Taliesen's body until the sharp, sweeping pleasure made him forget. _

_Afterwards, he slumped against Taliesen's shoulder, tasted new sweat there. He dug his fingernails into the man's back, and when the other Crow shivered, Zevran smiled. _

"_Are you going to miss me?"_

"_Not if it means you're not going to get off me and let me up, I won't. You're damn heavy for an elf. And your elbow's in my ribs." _

"_Oh? I give you such pleasure, my friend, and you treat me so harshly." He grinned and straightened up. _

"I might," Zevran said, and he knew it was a lie. He sighed against soft skin, felt the Warden shudder in response. "We shall have to see, won't we?"


	6. Home

_As always, a very big and appreciative thank-you to every one who's following this story. Bioware owns nearly everything, and reviews are always welcome. **  
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_**Chapter Six – Home**_

Redcliffe Castle stood grey and stark against the clouds. Pennants snapped and rippled against the stone. Along the walls, sentries carried torches, dragged flat as the evening winds scoured in from the lakeside. When the guards heaved the gates open, Darrian squared his shoulders and led the others into the courtyard beyond. He made it halfway up the steep stone steps before the door at the top was flung open. Inside, they were ushered through the cold corridors to the small dining room, and there, he pushed absently at steaming slices of venison. He hooked up his wine cup again and downed the contents, wincing at the sharp burn of it. The others were talking around him, Wynne and Leliana exchanging old, harmless stories, Oghren elbowing Morrigan and ignoring her waspish response. Zevran sat beside him, pressed against him hip to shoulder, his left hand curled against Darrian's thigh.

When the summons came, calling the Wardens to Arl Eamon's rooms, he stood too quickly. His hands caught roughly against the edge of the table. He felt the steadying press of Zevran's fingers on his arm. For a long moment, he looked at the assassin, his face turned away as he threw Wynne a dazzling smile.

"Tell him we're coming," Darrian told the guard.

Gently, he slipped free of Zevran's grasp. At the door, he matched pace with Alistair and could not quite quell the twisting unease that had lodged in his gut.

"You look about as happy as I feel," Alistair murmured.

"And here I thought I was being all unreadable." Darrian shook his head. "We do this your way."

"You're sure?"

"You do the talking, if you want. I'll do the agreeing."

"Darrian, I don't…I don't even know what I want to say."

"Well, then, just stand there looking regal and I'll get us into trouble by saying the wrong thing."

Alistair groaned. "That's not helpful."

The stairs wound up, and up again, and Darrian stayed silent. They passed fluttering sconces and the unfurled, bright panels of tapestries. Another guard beckoned them through the last doors, and Darrian stepped into the soft warmth of the arl's study. The strange, slightly unfamiliar scents of parchment and ink and beeswax candles assailed him.

"Ah, Warden. Alistair. Sit down, both of you," Arl Eamon said, and his face creased into a smile. "You've eaten?"

"We have," Alistair answered, and flopped himself into the empty chair near the hearth.

Darrian hesitated, and ended up choosing the windowseat when he realised the silence was stretching thin. He listened to the snapping fire and noticed the arl's poise, slightly terse, one hand clamped around a quill, the other fanned out on the table. Opposite Alistair sat the arl's brother, the younger man, a half-finished glass in one hand.

"You've been successful?" the arl asked.

"We have the treaties," Alistair said.

"Good. Then we'll make for Denerim tomorrow."

"What happens then?" Darrian heard his own voice waver slightly. Firmer, he added, "We just arrive and you call your Landsmeet and we hope every noble in Denerim decides they prefer us to Loghain?"

"Partly," Teagan said, and smiled crookedly. "We'll need to gather support."

"The Landsmeet needs to be swayed away from him." The arl's quill dropped, and he turned, his level gaze fixing on Darrian. "Your treaties give us allies against the Blight, that is all. You were both at Ostagar. You need to speak at the Landsmeet. Your treaties are useless until Denerim stands with us."

"And if Denerim won't?" Darrian asked.

"We must present Alistair as heir, and Loghain as usurper, and you will both speak of his treachery at Ostagar. How _his_ actions alone caused Cailan's death."

"And what if he doesn't want to be king?" Darrian smiled coldly, and added, "Alistair, I mean. Not Loghain."

Eamon pushed up to his feet. "_Want_ has little to do with _need_ in times such as this. Theirin blood is a far clearer claim than marriage, and Loghain _has_ to know that."

"What about Anora?" Alistair asked. "I don't suppose you've bothered asking her what she thinks?"

"She's shrewd," Teagan allowed. "She'd make a clever ally."

"Only because she'd make a worse enemy." Eamon rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Get some rest, both of you."

* * *

><p>Under insistent, pattering drizzle, Darrian wrestled with the horse's reins and tried to sit lower in the saddle. An aching twinge ran up the length of his back and he swore. The horse's rolling gait made him clench his teeth. He tried to shift his weight again, and succeeded only in slipping too far one way. He fought himself back upright and glared at the horse's rain-damp, jolting mane.<p>

"You're not enjoying yourself, my Warden?" Zevran asked, from somewhere beside him.

The assassin was _smiling_, and he knew it because he could hear it in the assassin's voice. Stubbornly, he kept his gaze on the back of the horse's neck and growled out, "My back is on fire, I can barely feel my legs, and I'm soaking wet. Leave me alone."

Zevran laughed. "It will stop hurting, in time. As you become used to it."

"You said that six days ago. It _still_ hurts."

"Learning to ride _anything_ takes practice. Don't you agree, my Warden? Practice and skill?"

"Oh, go away."

In the night-time darkness of his tent, Darrian burrowed under blessedly dry blankets and nestled himself against the solid warmth of Zevran's chest. The assassin's clever fingers ran along his shoulders, teasing out the knotted tension in his muscles.

"Lie down," Zevran murmured. "Flat. You're stiff, and not in any appreciable way."

"Funny."

"I know," Zevran said, and leaned down to kiss the nape of his neck.

The rhythmic, soothing motion of the assassin's hands eased the deep ache that had lodged somewhere behind his spine. He sighed against the blankets and mumbled, "Think they'd notice if I stayed in here tomorrow?"

"The arl and all his entourage would come searching if he lost one of his Wardens."

"I don't have royal blood. I'm less impressive."

"Perhaps. But still, you are needed. Your voice is needed."

"So they tell me."

Zevran's hands kneaded against the tight skin above his hips. "You do not think so?"

"I think that they think that it would be a lot easier if I was someone else."

"If your ears were a different shape? My Warden, you are striking. Pointed ears included."

He gasped out a laugh. "Very funny."

"You are a Warden, and this matters more, yes?"

"Just like you are an assassin, and that matters more?"

"I am an Antivan, and _that_ matters more," Zevran corrected mildly.

"I'm floundering."

"What is it you hope will happen in Denerim?"

"Find Loghain. Kill Loghain."

Zevran laughed. He straddled the back of Darrian's hips and turned his attention to the back of the Warden's neck. "There are ways to do this that have nothing to do with Landsmeets or the bickering of those with too much coin to spend."

"Ask me again after we get there," Darrian said, and shuddered when Zevran's thumbs rolled beneath the base of his skull. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, especially if it has anything to do with you or I naked and in bed."

"If you were me, would you go see your father?"

Zevran's fingers stilled against his skin. "Why would I not, is my wondering. Your crime was one of vengeance, my Warden, not shame."

"I didn't, last time. When I took Alistair to find that scholar."

"No?"

"No. There was no time."

It had been dark, he remembered, dark and the night all full of torch smoke and whipping rain. They had slipped in through the main gates behind late-arriving merchants, and made their way through the marketplace. There, they had found Genetivi's home, and the man inside who had claimed to be caring only for the scholar's safe return.

"Such choices are ours," Zevran said, and his hands fastened gently over Darrian's shoulders again. "Is that not what you said to me, once, a long time ago? More than once? If the choice is ours, then we must make it, for there is nothing else we can do?"

"Well, yes, but I think I was being vague." Darrian rolled over, and the assassin stayed where he was, braced above him.

"Is all Grey Warden advice so terrible?" Zevran grinned and leaned forward until his hair brushed Darrian's face. "And here I had thought you were being thoughtful and considerate."

"Always," Darrian answered, and he lunged up, capturing Zevran's mouth in a bruising, rough kiss. He caught the assassin's weight full against his chest. Zevran kissed his shoulder, and the slight dip above his collarbone.

"Gently," the assassin chided. "Unless you wish me to have twice the work to do with my hands tomorrow night?"

"Your fault," Darrian said. He turned his face into the assassin's neck, and added, "You were the one bragging about your skills. Twelve different massage techniques, six different card games?"

"I may have lied about the card games."

* * *

><p>Heavy clouds rolled above the high spires of Denerim. At the gates, the road was churned and wet and crowded. Darrian tightened his hands on the reins and ignored the mud that splashed his legs and his boots and the horse's flanks. Up ahead, merchants urged horses onward or to the side, dragging wagons across the uneven ground. The arl's guards chivvied them on, and shouts rang out for the mercenaries idling on the other side of the gates to make room.<p>

When the guards ahead of him kicked their horses on faster, Darrian groaned and tried to keep pace. His horse's steady trot jounced him in the saddle until he leaned into the curve of its neck and found the rhythm of it.

The marketplace was the same, and angrily, he wondered why he had thought it would be any different. The heavy drapes above the merchants' stalls sagged and rippled with the rain. Thin, barefoot children darted across the cobbles, chasing through the puddles. He thought he recognized the tall, bearded man calling prices on bolts of brightly-dyed cloth. Across the square, lamplight gleamed through tavern windows. A strange, fluttering uneasiness settled in his belly. This was _his_ city, surely, he thought. _His_ city, and he knew its alleyways and its winding, up-and-down streets and its surging grey river and its cramped, slanting rooftops. His city, so he should _not_ feel like this, feel as if he were worse than a stranger.

He gritted his teeth and dug his boots against the horse's flanks. The horse flung its brown head back and snorted, and when it clattered faster around the corner, his left stirrup slipped too far under his heel. The estate was not far, he knew, and part of him was glad. He wanted to be down on his own feet and inside and away from the incessant patter of the rain. He turned the horse down the wide thoroughfare and under the high archway with its rain-flattened pennants.

In the stables, he swung himself out of the saddle. His feet hit the ground too hard and he clung to the horse's neck for an unsteady moment.

"Me too," Alistair said, from where he leaned against his own tall roan.

"You too, what?"

"Failing at standing up properly."

He rubbed a hand along the horse's long, velvety nose. "Next time I want a carriage."

"No you don't," Alistair said. "You'd get bored in a carriage."

"Probably. That doesn't make me feel better right now, though." He stroked the horse again. "Come on. I'm starving."

* * *

><p>When the rain faded into a raw, cold afternoon, Darrian slipped away from the opulence of the estate. He left Zevran sprawled naked and sweating on clean sheets, and the assassin watched him through level, thoughtful eyes until he closed the door. Outside, he huddled deeper beneath the hood of his cape and walked into the biting chill of the wind. Slowly, he quartered the marketplace, and afterwards, he ducked through the winding alleys that would take him back around to the Chantry. Yellow lights shone through the windows there, as they always did, and through the half-open doors he heard the soft susurration of murmured prayers. The afternoon wore on, and he meandered back through the criss-crossing maze of avenues and small streets that looped around the far side of the merchant quarters.<p>

Four times, he nearly marched up the steps that he knew led to the guarded Alienage gate. Four times, he turned away, his head down and his hand clamped over his sword hilt.

His leathers were too new, he thought. His boots were too clean. His hair was too neat. His cape was lined, and the ties at the neck were leather hung with small, carved pieces of rosewood.

_Fool_, he thought, and strode past the guard.

"Wait," the man said, and pushed himself away from the wall. "Can't go in."

"What?"

"The Alienage is closed off. Regent's orders, and no one's to go in."

"Closed off?" Darrian repeated uselessly. "Can you tell me why?"

"Weeks back there was word of a plague. It's quieter now." The guard shrugged. Beneath uneven stubble, he was pale and worn and young. "Not sure. We were just told to keep the gates shut and the elves inside."

Darrian bit at the inside of his cheek. He nodded and turned away. He quickened his pace against the damp cobbles until the street sloped up and away. At the estate, he darted around to one of the smaller side doors and made his way through the kitchen. As quickly, he ran up the stairs and blundered back into the bedchamber.

"You're _still_ not wearing anything?" He kicked the door shut with one foot and eyed Zevran, half-wrapped in a sheet and nothing else. "Expecting company?"

"Only yours, my Warden." He straightened up, and the firelight slid over the muscled lines of his chest. "Whatever has happened to you?"

"I need…well, I need a favour. The guard said the Alienage is closed off and I want to go in and find my father because the guard said that there'd been a plague and I don't know what's happened to any of them."

Zevran blinked slowly. "I _think_ I heard that correctly. Did the guard know anything else?"

"No. He was bored and young and stuck guarding the gate. He didn't know anything."

Zevran pushed the sheet away. He reached for his clothes and asked, "I am presuming that the gate is not the only way in?"

"You'd be right." He watched as Zevran pulled his breeches up around narrow hips. "You're sure about this?"

"I had nothing else intended for the afternoon, my Warden."

* * *

><p>At the docks, the grey sea rolled up to the wharves. With Zevran moving soundlessly beside him, Darrian picked his way along the spray-shiny walkways that wove behind the wharves. Overhead, the gulls fought with the gusts that blew in with each white-laced heave of the waves. Too few ships lay tethered at anchor, he noticed, and even fewer were unloading cargo. Wordlessly, he led Zevran around and past the old fish warehouses and down a narrow, twisting alley. The air was sharp with salt when he breathed in too quickly. Another cramped turn led onto a smaller path, thick mud underfoot. He paused, glanced at the high walls on both sides and listened.<p>

"Too quiet," he murmured.

Zevran nodded, and they moved on as silently, winding between the leaning roofs of the warehouses. More than once, he crouched and pulled himself bodily through some awful, cramped gap. In the low doorways, nothing moved, and he wondered why. This strange maze of passageways and footpaths swarmed during the summer months, and proved little quieter even when the cruelest part of the winter rimed the sea steps with frost.

The alleyway curved around the deserted hulk of another warehouse, and he stopped. On the other side, the fence pressed against a high stone wall. Small scooped-out hollows spoiled the line of the wall, rubbed rough at the edges, and briefly, he remembered the first spring he and Soris had discovered them. Entirely by accident, and the height of the wall had stopped them long enough to turn their first, scrambled attempt into a competition.

He clambered up the fence, catching his weight lightly against old planking that gave and creaked beneath his heels. Another half-jump took him high enough to grasp the first gouged-out hollow, and he swung himself up. On the other side, the tiny alleyway was clear, and he dropped easily. Zevran landed beside him, and he led the assassin around the next corner and past the old building he knew used to be the chandler's shop. He darted past the crowded square and noticed the curling branches of the vhenadahl, the waving leaves green and bright. Another rapid walk took him past a leaning line of houses and up the steps to his father's door.

His heart was pounding ridiculously fast. Before he could think better of it, he raised his fist and knocked, and knocked again to stop the trembling in his fingers. "Father? Father, are you in there?" He tried the small, smudged window as well, and peered into the unmoving gloom within. "Father? Cyrion?"

"Warden," Zevran said, his voice edged and wary.

He heard footsteps and then the familiar, steely sound of the assassin unsheathing a dagger. When he whirled around, he found himself staring into Soris' pale, startled face.

"_Darrian? _What are you _doing_ here?"

"Soris," he said, stupidly. Blindly, he reached for Zevran's arm. "I'm looking for Father."

"He's not here. Aren't you meant to be a Grey Warden? And dead?"

"Yes to the first."

"Who's your friend?"

"This is Zevran." Darrian did not let go of the assassin's wrist. "Soris, what's going on? The gates are guarded. No one's being let in."

"Except you."

"We came over the wall." He heard the sharp note of anger in his own voice and tried to rein it in. "Are you actually going to help me, or do I have find someone else to ask?"

"It started a few weeks ago. They said it was plague. Something to do with the Blight outside, but why would that be here?"

Darrian clenched his teeth. He listened, Zevran's shoulder against his, while his cousin said something about missing families and Valendrian's protests ignored and human guards and human healers at the old hospice building. He knew the maze of streets behind the old hospice, and he wondered how quickly they might be able to slip inside.

And then his cousin said Cyrion's name, and Darrian's mind went flat.

"When did it happen?"

"He went inside six days ago." Helplessly, Soris shrugged.

"Was he sick?"

"I don't know."

"You're not helping," Darrian snapped furiously. He jammed his hands into his belt. "Go and find Shianni. Unless she's in there as well?"

"No. She's not."

"Go find her, and tell her what we're doing."

"Darrian."

"No," he said, and painfully he remembered Soris' face when they had stood in the square months and months ago. How his cousin had stared at him, his face cold and hard with something very like hatred.

_"You've brought the guards. Darrian, you've brought the guards. Now what will you do?"_

_ "I don't know. I didn't mean…"_

_ "What did you think they'd do? You_ killed_ him. What did you think was going to happen?"_

"Just wait for us," Darrian said, and turned away.

* * *

><p>Darrian eased himself carefully through the broken windowpane. He winced when something sharp caught against his ankle. Zevran eeled through the gap after him, one hand sliding to his dagger hilt. At the far end of the room, he eased the door open. Silently, he moved in front of Darrian, each step precise and predatory. Darrian heard cautious steps, and the floorboards beneath giving slightly. Something bright slashed the gloom, and then Zevran was moving, ducking beneath the white flare of the spell. The familiar tang of magic seared the air. He launched himself off one foot and his sword point dipped and lodged in the mage's chest.<p>

_Two mages_, Darrian realised, and flung himself sideways. He rolled beneath the livid surge of the next spell. He spun, and the downswing of his sword sent the second mage sprawling. Zevran cut the mage's throat, and when he straightened up again, he was all poised, vicious grace.

"Stay behind me, my Warden," he said. "We do not know their numbers."

The next two rooms proved empty, and the third bristled with men in armour. They fell beneath the cruel, snaking motion of Zevran's blades, and following him, Darrian picked off the three the assassin left coughing through their own blood. Narrow steps led up into a long, cramped chamber, and there, the air was rank with the damp and the pervasive, dizzying scent of old blood and sickness.

Cages lined the walls, low and rusting, and when Darrian saw the elves inside them, his stomach lurched.

He swallowed, and when he saw his own thoughts on Zevran's face, he spun and threw himself at the shouting, confused men who hurtled through the open door behind them. His sword rose and fell until his shoulder throbbed. Some part of him was aware of his own blood in his hair and on his face, and the stinging pain of a long gash on his leg.

Zevran shouted a warning about another mage, and he whirled beneath the breath-stealing barrage of an ice spell. Darrian careened full-force into the mage's shoulder and toppled him. Zevran jammed one arm under the mage's chin and held him, half on his knees, one dagger point against the mage's throat.

"Who are you?" Darrian demanded.

"Does it matter?" The mage's voice was clipped and brusque. "You've finished my men and interrupted my business here. I assume this means you want something?"

"I want to know what you're doing here."

The mage's dark eyes flickered. "Organising the removal of my property."

"Slavery."

"Yes."

"Who would allow it?"

"Allow me to stand, and perhaps we could find you some proof, yes?" The mage smiled. "I would pay for my life, if you wish it."

"Coin and information both," Darrian said, and heard the incisive, cold note in his own voice. "Now."

The mage inclined his head. With Zevran beside him, dagger point unwavering, he pulled a sealed sheaf of parchment from his robes.

"There is a smaller room upstairs. There, you will find gold enough to satisfy you, I am certain."

"Good," Darrian said, and nodded to Zevran.

The assassin moved almost soundlessly, burying one dagger in the mage's chest. The other dipped past the mage's jaw and opened his throat, and as quietly, the assassin lowered the mage to the floor.

Darrian loosened his grip on his sword hilt and realised that he was shaking. "Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Can you," he said, and coughed. "The cages. Help me get them open?"

Mercifully, Zevran only nodded. He rifled through the mage's robes until he found keys. Zevran wrestled with the locks and Darrian yanked the low barred doors open, and he shook his head when the elves thanked him and grasped at his hands and asked him why he was there. He _knew_ them, knew them beneath their loose, filthy clothing and the dried blood that clung to their wrists and their ankles. Alarith's brother and the girl he had once caught Soris wrapped around during a midsummer celebration and Valendrian and he wondered suddenly how many of them had already been sold.

_Sold_, he thought, and the skin between his shoulders tightened. _Sold_, and for what reason, he wondered.

"Darrian," Zevran said, and touched the side of his arm. "There may be more. I will look."

"Yes." Numbly, he added, "Be careful."

He needed to get them all outside, these thin, half-starved elves with their strange staring eyes. He _knew_ them all, knew their names and their children and their families. But his throat was thick and dry and when they asked if he was alright, he only nodded. Someone touched his shoulder and he reined in the urge to push them away, to turn and run until he was outside and breathing in the air that was all full of the sea. Someone else said his name and he knew then that he _had_ to say something, had to do something.

He knelt and swung the last of the doors open. He reached in until his fingers closed gently on his father's arm.

"I'm here," he said. As carefully, he guided his father out and under the bars. "Father. It's me."

Father's face creased into a slow, bewildered smile. "I know. I saw you."

"Come on," he said, and tried to ignore the way Father's feet slipped against the floorboards, the way Father's hands clutched at his shoulders. "We need to get you out of here."


	7. Hunted

_As always, a very big thank-you to everyone who's following this story.  
><em>

_**Chapter Seven – Hunted**_

The late afternoon sun sent slanting shadows across the slopes of roofs and gables and the twisting shape of the vhenadahl. With his head down, Darrian crossed the square and wordlessly, he joined Zevran where he sat cross-legged on a low wall.

"They are all home?" the assassin asked.

"Yes."

"How many were taken?"

"Valendrian said he wasn't sure yet. Dozens, maybe. He said he thinks that the first ones were actually sick. Kaerith went in with the first ones, he said, and he wasn't well."

"You knew him?"

"Not well," Darrian lied. When the silence pooled between them, uncertain and terse, he said, "Valendrian said he's going to go through the hospice again. Try and work out who died and who got sold." He felt the weight of the assassin's gaze on his shoulders, and he snapped, "Say whatever it is you want to say."

"What makes you think I wish to say anything?"

"You've been quiet all day. You're _never_ quiet."

"Perhaps I am tired, my Warden. All this chasing slavers and killing mages."

"Yes." Darrian pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. "Come on. We need to go before we're missed even more."

"As you wish it," Zevran said, and uncoiled from his lazy poise.

"You're not even going to demand that I go see my father?"

"Should I?"

"No, I just," Darrian said, and exhaled. Disgruntled, he added, "Wait here for me?"

"For as long as you want, my Warden."

He found the house easily, and wondered at the strange heaviness in his belly. Earlier, he had bundled his father in through the door and ordered Soris in after him along with instructions that his father be fed properly.

He knocked, and when Soris opened the door, he mustered up a smile. "How is he?"

"He's alright," Soris responded in the same bland tone. "Come in, then."

He trailed Soris into the small bare room with the largest window. At the hearth, the fire leaped and crackled, and his father stood over it, hands held out.

"Darrian." Father looked at him, half smiling, his eyes shining. He wrapped his arms around Darrian's shoulders and pulled him tight against his chest. Father's hand cradled the back of his head. "You're alive," Father said, half-muffled against his shoulder. "We'd heard that you were all…you're _alive_."

He held onto his father, felt the tremors that ran through him. He nodded, and tried to speak, and found that his throat was painfully thick. Father was thinner, much thinner, and the hands locked across his back shook.

"Oh, Darrian." Father's embrace loosened slightly, and Father looked at him, dark eyes flooded. "Darrian. Son. You're alive."

He managed a smile, lopsided and uncertain. "Yes."

"Well." Father coughed. "Can you tell me anything about it?"

Darrian nodded, but again the words would not come. His tongue dragged against his teeth. He swallowed again, and blurted out, "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"For the way I left. For what happened."

"Oh. Child. It's not…" Father shook his head. "It's over and done. You're here. That matters. Right now, that matters."

"Yes, but…"

"Never did learn when to be quiet, did you? Come and sit down. You look terrible."

"Yes, but," he said, and when the words failed him again, he pressed his forehead against Father's shoulder. Father said nothing, only held onto him silently and patiently. "I'm so sorry."

"It doesn't matter," Father said. "You're here."

"I nearly wasn't," he said, before he could help himself.

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

Father chuckled. He cupped his hand over the back of Darrian's head again. "Let me look at you."

He obeyed, lifting his face so that Father could see him properly. He wondered what his father saw, if he noticed the new leathers or how he carried more muscle in his shoulders now, or how his hair was in need of a decent trimming. "I can't stay long."

"I know." Beneath wet eyes, his father's smile was soft. "I know that. I've missed you."

* * *

><p>Darrian reached for the door, and his hands shook. The cheap wine his father had served in small cups had been as sweet and sickly as he remembered. He had once achieved his first pounding hangover with a skinful of the dreadful stuff, he recalled, and that had been long enough ago that Soris had howled with laughter at him when he had sat, head in his hands and the room swaying around him.<p>

"You're going," Soris said, and caught the door. "Already?"

"Don't tell me you actually want me to stay."

"Were they true? The stories you told him?"

"About the dragon? Yes, actually." He turned then, so he could look into Soris' pale, angled face. "I'm sorry."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'm sorry for how I left, and I'm sorry I made you come with me to the arl's estate."

"Yes, well." Soris shrugged. "If I hadn't wanted to go, I could've always said no."

The breath left Darrian's lungs in a shuddering rush. "You can _never_ say no," he told his cousin.

"I know." Soris smiled, uneven and tired. "I'll look after him."

"Thank you."

"Make sure you see Shianni before you go. She'll kill me if you don't."

He laughed, and it caught in his throat. He nodded, and stepped out into the early evening chill. He found Zevran still indolently perched on the wall. Before they were halfway to the gates, Shianni ambushed them, grabbing his arm and holding on until he was uncertain if she was going to hug him or hit him.

"You're an idiot," she said. "You spirit yourself in here, actually _do_ something useful, and now you try and slither away? You're an idiot."

"Thank you. I think."

"I've been shouting at everyone to do something for days now."

"I know. Father told me."

"Least you did something. Easy to do when you're carrying a sword around, I guess."

Her grip on his arm relaxed, and he pulled her close and ignored her spluttered protest. "I've missed you."

"Obviously." She pried herself off him slightly, and added, "You're too thin."

"Nice to see you, too." He pushed his fingers through her short, bright hair until she shrieked and batted his hand away. "You still don't like that?"

"You're a bastard sometimes." She kissed his cheek gently, and then demanded, "Who's your friend?"

"This is Zevran," he said, and when Zevran's arm slid around his waist, he grinned.

"A very _good_ friend, then?" Shianni's smile widened, and she turned her attention on the assassin. "How long have you been putting up with him, then?"

"Long enough," Zevran answered. He clasped Shianni's hand and softly, he kissed her palm. "You are most beautiful, my dear. Your cousin is lucky to have you in his life."

She nudged Darrian, and murmured, "Sure he's taken?"

"Frequently and vigorously. And anyway, he'd flirt with a tree if he thought there was the slightest chance that it would flirt back."

"I'll be sure to leave him to your capable hands, then, cousin."

"Shianni," he said, and stopped. He pushed on past the awkward, biting reluctance and asked, "Do you need anything? Anything I can give you? Coin?"

"Don't," she said fiercely. "Don't you dare."

"I know, I just thought…"

"No, you didn't, or you wouldn't have asked. You helped us, cousin. That's enough. For now."

He laughed. "For now?"

"Yes. You're leaving?"

"Yes."

"I know, you have to." Shianni folded her arms. "You'll come back and see us?"

"I don't know when."

"I know. Whenever you've stopped doing whatever it is you have to do right now." She smiled and clipped his shoulder lightly. "Now get out of here."

* * *

><p>Rain pattered against dark windows. Darrian huddled deeper into his tunic and ducked around the last corner and into the small kitchen. It proved as deserted as the corridor had been, and gratefully, he laid the lantern on the nearest table. He rummaged until he found bread and a knife and was halfway through sawing off a ridiculously-shaped chunk when he heard footsteps.<p>

He spun and glared up into Alistair's unassuming brown eyes. "Can you see in the dark now, or do you just like lurking?"

"Sorry." Alistair yawned and leaned against the door. "Where were you?"

"What?"

"Today. You and Zevran. You were both gone long enough that Wynne made me check both your rooms. I'm almost glad you _weren't_ there, but I'm still curious."

"Oh. We went to the Alienage." Guiltily, Darrian drove the knife into the bread again. When Alistair stayed silent, he shrugged and in spare, unadorned words, he told him about the slavers, about the elves in cages, about the plague rumours.

"You went by yourselves?" Alistair blinked. "Why didn't you say something to me?"

"You're human."

"That's not fair."

"No? It's true, though. I needed to know what was happening, and do you really think two more elves in the Alienage made anyone look twice?"

"No, but," Alistair said, and nodded. "I know."

"The slavers had permission."

"What?"

"We found Loghain's name on an agreement to sell elves. Money that was to go to the palace. To Loghain."

"You're certain?"

"We took it off a slaver mage after he offered it as proof." Darrian smiled thinly and added, "He wanted an exchange for his life."

"What did you do?"

"We killed him."

Alistair scraped a hand through his hair. "The elves, are they..?"

"They're alright. The ones that are still there."

"I'm sorry," the man said, and shook his head. "Darrian, I had no idea. No one…"

"I know." He curled his fingers around the edge of the table. "You can give the evidence to Eamon tomorrow."

"Yes." Alistair sighed. "I know it's a good thing, having it, it just…I don't know."

Darrian stared down at his hands, at the grime under his nails, at the bruise that vanished underneath one sleeve cuff. "I know what you mean."

* * *

><p>In the pale, wind-raked afternoon, Zevran went into the city alone. Darrian and the other Warden had been called into Arl Eamon's presence, and from there to the palace to meet with the regent, and Zevran had paced until his impatience had made his skin prickle and his hands clench.<p>

His Warden _would_ be fine, and he knew that. He knew that, since apparently even the regent must abide by the rules of the arl's Landsmeet, and offer nothing more threatening than a single meeting, but even so, he did not like it. His Warden had the dog and Alistair and the arl's guards and that was all.

Zevran made his way through the marketplace, his path deliberately meandering. He kept his hands loose and his hood up and he listened. He heard the dwarven merchants calling prices on newly-forged axes and shields and near them, the pretty, pale-skinned girls with their trays of flowers and herbs. He ambled past the fabric traders and the young boy selling jewelry and the older women who walked between them, their eyes on amethysts and bright bolts of silk. At the far side of the square, he matched pace with a tall, broad-shouldered soldier as he strode past the weapon stalls again. He heard the merchant's voice, lilting and amused and accented, and he wondered. He fixed his gaze on the ground and stayed behind the soldier until he reached the corner, and the marketplace fell behind.

As casually, he wandered back to the estate the long way, the long looping way that took him past the high arches of the Chantry and near enough to the docks that his eyes watered under the raw press of the wind. The city was a warren, and one he knew not nearly well enough. Beneath sloping gables the shadows lingered, and too often he half-saw movement that made his shoulders stiffen.

Children, usually, small and thin and darting out ahead of him, their feet bare and filthy against the cobbles. Other times, elves walking with their heads bent against the wind, and they spared him barely a second glance.

They _had_ to know he was here.

Three days in the city and an arrival flanked by an arl's entourage and _he knew_ they would have seen it. _Seen him_, he thought, and quickened his pace. He needed to find them, and fast, and preferably under cover of darkness.

At the estate, he discovered Darrian's room empty. Irrationally perturbed, he prowled until he found Wynne in the library. She sat in the bigger chair near the hearth, a book open on her lap, and the mabari lying lazily beside her feet.

"Zevran," she said, and lifted her head.

She looked at him in that measured, thoughtful way of hers, and he suppressed the urge to shuffle his feet. "He's with Alistair and the arl," Wynne said.

"Ah. Thank you. You spare my dignity, dear lady."

Her lips curled into a small smile. "They returned safe and breathing this afternoon."

He inclined his head to her in farewell, and upstairs, he wasted the last of the afternoon sitting poised in the windowseat. Pennants rippled above the estate walls, and past them, he watched as the city streets quieted. Guardsmen lit lamps at archways and the corners near the square. The last fading glow of the dusk brought low cloud, and Darrian, stumbling in through the door.

"You look terrible," Zevran said cheerfully.

"Thank you," Darrian responded, in almost the same tone. He tugged his gloves off with his teeth. Clumsily, he dropped onto the windowseat beside Zevran, and his sheathed sword bumped the wall.

"What happened?"

"Regardless of how Loghain may have wanted you to kill _both_ surviving Grey Wardens, today he was rather concerned with only one of us. I think he looked at me twice. Maybe."

Zevran chuckled. He combed his fingers through Darrian's hair until he found the ties at the nape of his neck. "He did not try to kill you or anything equally dishonourable?"

"No. He agreed to a Landsmeet. And when that happens, Alistair and me get to shout at him in front of all the nobility in the land and _they_ get to decide who's right."

Zevran loosened the ties and watched as Darrian's hair fanned across his palm. "And you said the way we do things in Antiva is strange."

"I'm beginning to change my mind." The Warden sighed. His head rolled against Zevran's shoulder, and he said, "You're good at talking. Can you do it for me?"

"Oh? Do you really think Loghain will back down, however _good_ the talking is, yours or mine or Alistair's?"

"No," Darrian said. "I just don't want to think about what we'll have to do when that happens."

Zevran spread his fingers along the base of Darrian's neck, slowly stroked. "My professional opinion suggests poison. Or an arrow between the eyes."

Darrian spluttered into a laugh. "You are a saint amongst men."

"You have only just realised this?"

"Sadly." Darrian turned so that he was sprawled against Zevran, half on his lap and half across his chest.

"You're heavy."

"And _you_ are as uncomfortably tense as if I'd told you to jump into bed with Oghren." Darrian's forehead nuzzled against his chest. "What's wrong?"

"Give me enough brandy, and who knows what I might achieve."

"That's not an answer. And I'm not heavy."

Zevran laughed. He shifted, bringing his legs up around the Warden, pulling them both back against the casement. "I am fine, my Warden."

Darrian leaned back against his chest. He exhaled slowly, and Zevran felt it as his whole frame relaxed. Thoughtfully, Zevran ran his hand through the Warden's hair again. Soft black strands, and they spilled so easily between his fingers, he thought.

"Tell me?"

"Later," Zevran said, and kissed the back of the Warden's head. He let his hands wander down Darrian's chest until he found his belt buckle. "Right now I wish to distract you."

* * *

><p>Very carefully, Zevran eased himself out from beneath the Warden's supine form. Lost in sleep, he was all disheveled hair and artlessly sprawled limbs. As cautiously, Zevran slipped into his breeches. He reached for his boots and his weapons and with practiced silence, lifted them into his arms. He hesitated a moment longer, listening to Darrian's even, steady breathing.<p>

The corridor was empty, and moving quickly, he darted into his own room. There, he tugged open his pack and found a set of dark leathers, rubbed almost grey in places. After he pulled them on and yanked the laces tight, he found a small glass vial, wrapped and hidden beneath his spare tunics. With brisk, methodical strokes, he lined both daggers and his sword with the gleaming dark poison. The scent of it filled his mouth, bitter and familiar.

Outside, the darkness was grey with shifting shadows. He paused, and listened to the soft, night-blurred sounds of the city. If there were still guardsmen, they would be keeping themselves safe at the barracks or else in groups and near lanterns, he guessed. Silently, he wound his way through the torchlit alleys behind the marketplace. More than once he stopped, head tilted to listen, his hand straying towards his dagger.

_Foolish_, he thought. Foolish to be flinching like an apprentice at dogs barking or running or doors slamming somewhere close by. Foolish to be wasting time moving so slowly when he had too much to do before the night waned.

He found the small house, nestled between sloping walls, the windows dark. He waited again, thinking until he was certain that yes, it was here that he had been sent to wait for the summons to the palace. Here that he had spent a handful of bored days, his time wasted at the whorehouse or the tavern.

He chose the window instead of the door. He drove his elbow through the smallest pane and waited, listening. He reached in and eased the window open. The skin between his shoulders tightened.

A trap, he thought, for they would not be so stupid as to be unaware of him. Even so, he had no other option, so he worked himself through the gap until he found rough floorboards. He stood poised for a long silent moment, gauging the distance to the archway on the far side of the room, to the tiny flicker of candlelight he could see through the open door.

A shadow slanted through the archway. He flung himself forward, his shoulder smacking solidly against skin. He hooked one arm around the man's neck and kicked out the back of the man's knees. He rested the dagger point against the man's neck and listened to the uneven, gulping sound of his breathing.

"Ignacio," he murmured, almost surprised. "How long has it been since you held a weapon properly?"

The man's hands scrabbled at his arm. "This is not wise."

"No? I was expected to stay and wait for them to come to me, was I?" He let the edge of the dagger slide across the man's throat. "Who is it?"

"You are Taliesen's responsibility."

_Of course_, Zevran thought. "How many here, now?"

"Two."

"How many with Taliesen?"

"Enough."

"We'll see," Zevran said, and drove the dagger into the man's neck. He held him while he thrashed, and afterwards, he lowered the man to the floor.

He listened, and when he heard the barely-there sound of someone's heels against the floorboards, he melted back into the shadows. His shoulders brushed the wall and he stopped, poised. The first Crow slipped through the door with the easy, agile grace he expected. Zevran met him halfway, his sword snapping up. The tip sheared past the Crow's dagger, and he twisted until the pommel smacked against the inside of the Crow's arm. He whirled, and a raking strike with his dagger opened the Crow's belly.

He turned, still moving, and flung himself at the second one. A kick to his thigh staggered him. He grappled for his footing, and another kick spun him. He ducked beneath the shining arc of the Crow's dagger. He pivoted and lashed out at the Crow's arm, and when the man stumbled, he caught his wrist and yanked.

Balance lost, the Crow cried out, and Zevran used the Crow's swaying weight to haul himself upright. He buried his dagger to the hilt in the Crow's chest and swore when the blade grated against bone.

With the meticulous patience he had been taught, he checked the bodies. The first Crow groaned something between blood-ribboned lips, so Zevran sliced his throat open. He lingered until he hated the press of the silence, and outside in the alley, he breathed in air that did not stink of fear and death and the poison that had eaten into the Crows' skin.

Taliesen would find them, if he did not already know, if he had not been watching.

Silently, Zevran picked his way back through the dark streets. He did not let himself think until he was back inside the arl's estate, back inside solid walls. In his room he cleaned his blades, and when the blood and the poison was wiped away, he realised that his hands were shaking.

* * *

><p>Darrian pushed his hands through his hair and hesitated again before knocking. Then he cursed himself silently and tapped on the door. "Zevran? Are you in there?"<p>

"I'm in here," the assassin responded, and his voice was frayed.

Darrian stepped over the threshold. Sunlight flooded the room, and the assassin sat coiled at the windowseat, his fingers running restlessly over the hilt of his sword.

"Where were you?" Darrian asked before he could help himself.

"Here."

"Zevran."

"Does it matter? I have no claim upon you and you have no claim upon me and we have _spoken_ of this, haven't we?"

"Yes," Darrian said. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how was it meant?" Zevran asked, and his tone stayed hard and cold. "Am I not trusted now to do what I will?"

_"I dreamed about Duncan. And I dreamed about Weisshaupt."_

_ Zevran sighed. "A shame, my friend. I was beset by visions of ladies so lovely they took even me by surprise. Perhaps you need a better imagination?"_

_ "You were being tortured," Darrian said, and immediately regretted it. "I mean…when I found you. I saw it."_

_ Zevran's mouth thinned. "I was being taught."_

_ "Taught what? How to not scream too loudly?"_

_ "In a way. We are all shown pain. What good is an assassin if he screams at the first touch of the lash or the first pull of the rack?" _

_ "It just seems a quick way to lose recruits."_

_ "If they would not make good assassins, then better to lose them earlier, yes?" Zevran shrugged. "The Crows are not known for their mercy, and nor should they be."_

_ "And you liked it?"_

_ "Being a Crow? Why not?"_

_ "Killing people for money springs to mind."_

_ "You have killed people, and I have killed people. I imagine I have killed far more than you, but then, I am older than you." Zevran's smile surfaced again, edged and slightly vicious. "The choice was not given to me, my Warden. I was sold to the Crows." _

_ "Yes, but…"_

_ "No. Tell me this, my Warden. If you had not been taken from Denerim, if your blade had not ended your nobleman's life, what then? Would you have been content to stay in that city and be like all the others?"_

_ "I don't know. It didn't happen like that." Darrian shook his head. Absurdly, he was angry, with himself and the mages and the needless blood that had slicked the white walls of the Tower. With _Zevran_, and the assassin's cold smile and the words he hid behind, the words he _always_ hid behind, throwing them up as if they were weapons. "Did it hurt?"_

_ "Did what hurt?"_

_ "Your lesson." _

_ "Ah, well. You know what they say. An afternoon on a rack is most bracing."_

_ "That doesn't answer anything."_

_ "No?" Zevran's shoulders stiffened. "What do you think it felt like?"_

_ "I've never been on a rack. I wouldn't know," Darrian said, each word deliberately cold. _

_ "Yes, it hurt, yes, I screamed," Zevran snarled. He pushed up to his feet. His hands tightened. "Was that what you wanted to hear?"_

_ "Yes." _

_ "Why?" _

_ "Because it was the truth," Darrian said, gently. _

_ "Oh." The breath left Zevran's body in a shuddering rush. "There is more that is true that I could tell you that is also more fun, my Warden."_

_ "Does it involve you taking your clothes off?" _

_ "Of course it does," Zevran said, and his smile softened. _

_ "Then consider me your captive audience." _

"You are trusted," Darrian said quietly. He watched the rhythmic, impatient motion of the assassin's fingers. "And I missed you last night. That is all."

Zevran's head lifted. "These walls, I do not like them sometimes. Will you come outside with me?"

"If you want."

* * *

><p>At the library door, the dog ambushed them, and Zevran was silently glad of the distraction. The Warden murmured something to the dog, and walked with his hand on the dog's huge head, or else with his fingers trailing down the creature's neck. Outside, the afternoon was clear and crisp. Wordlessly, Zevran led the Warden through the carefully-tended gardens and into a small courtyard. Tiny white flowers spilled down the walls, and the weathered old columns were wreathed with ivy.<p>

Darrian sat with his back to the wall. "Why am I not surprised that you've found every strange, small or secret place on this estate already?"

"Not _every_ one, my Warden. Not yet, anyway."

Darrian smiled and did not press him. Instead, he dragged the dog onto his lap and stroked idly at the thick brown fur along the underside of the creature's jaw.

"Don't you fear for your fingers at all? That monster of yours has large teeth."

"Be nice. Besides, he only bites people he doesn't like."

Zevran snorted. "That does not reassure me."

He quartered the courtyard twice before he surrendered and sat beside the Warden. He unsheathed one dagger and stared at the hilt, at the nicks and scratches in the leather that wrapped down to the pommel. "They are here."

"The Crows," Darrian said, and it was not a question.

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

He watched the play of sunlight on the blade, tremulous and bright. "I went out last night and I found them."

"How?"

"There are places that we use when we are sent. These are kept by people who are sometimes Crows themselves, sometimes in the pay of the Crows."

"What do we do?"

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to look into the Warden's face and see a smile, maybe, something, _anything_ that was not this fierce, strange determination that he could already hear in Darrian's voice. "_We_ do not do anything, my Warden."

"So," Darrian said, coldly. "You expect me to stay here and play tricks for Arl Eamon while you go out into the city today and hunt down the rest of them."

"It is tonight that I will be going."

"Zevran," he said, and his hands tightened around his belt. "You will not go alone."

"Oh, an order, is it? An order, after all these promises of freedom?"

Darrian's mouth tightened, and Zevran knew the words had hurt, as they were meant to. "Do you know the ones who are after you?"

"No," Zevran lied, and the word fell practiced and easily from his lips. "I do not."

"Then you're more likely to need my help."

"And leave your fellow Grey Warden alone?"

"He can look after himself. Did you want to carry on thinking up excuses, or did you just want to agree that I'm coming with you?"

"Why?"

"For the same reason you came with me into the Deep Roads."

Zevran laughed until his throat ached. "Very well, my conquering hero. We do it _my_ way though, yes?"


	8. Chains

_As always, a very big thank-you to everyone who's following this story. I own little. Reviews are always welcome. **  
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_**Chapter Eight – Chains**_

The night closed over Denerim. Needling rain swept in wind-buffeted sheets from low clouds. The torches snapped and hissed, dragged almost flat. Zevran walked quietly and quickly, Darrian wordless beside him, as agreed. He led the Warden through the twining alleys, both of them keeping close to the walls.

_"Ah, Zevran. You are here. Good."_

_ He nodded and stepped into the circle of light. The air against his face was warm already, the dry harsh promise of a brutally hot day. _

_ The master paused. "This is Taliesen."_

_ Zevran looked past the master to the young man who stood poised and waiting. Dark hair and dark eyes and a delightfully defiant look on his angular face, Zevran noticed. Beneath the loose fall of his shirt, the young man's shoulders were trim, the hands crossed over his sword hilt lean and scarred. "And?"_

_ "And you will train with him."_

_ They did, sparring with quarterstaffs and then blades and snaking around each other across the creaking floorboards. Dust motes swam in the livid fall of the sunlight, and again and again, he pushed Taliesen the length of the room and back. The young man fought well and viciously, and afterwards, Zevran smiled. _

_ "Not terrible," he said, and grinned. "Perhaps with practice you may even become dangerous."_

_ "Is that an offer or a promise?"_

_ "Which would you prefer?"_

_ Twelve days later, in the same room, Zevran kicked Taliesen's ankles out. He let the young man's weight take them both on to the floor. He rested his dagger across the young man's throat and murmured, "Not your best effort." _

_ Taliesen grasped his wrist and rolled them both over. The dagger jarred and traced a glaring red line across his throat. His knee drove against Zevran's stomach and the elf was tipped off him. He writhed away, lashing out with one foot, striking against Taliesen's wrist. _

_ "Better," Zevran said, between deep breaths. "What else can you show me?"_

_ "What else would you like?"_

_ It was in the small tavern eight days later that he finally cornered Taliesen. The afternoon warmth seeped through the stone walls and when Zevran passed him another cup of sweet wine, the young man's hand brushed along his. _

_He took the young man outside and into the sluggish heat. The far side of the stable courtyard was white and there he pushed Taliesen against the wall and the young man laughed and pulled him closer. Under Taliesen's leathers he discovered tanned skin and angular shoulders and the rapid, uneven thud of the young man's pulse beneath his mouth. He turned Taliesen around and fiercely he lost himself in the heat of the young man's body. _

_Afterwards, after Taliesen shuddered and spent himself against the wall, after he followed him into an arching climax, Zevran leaned his forehead against the cooling stone. _

"_So," Taliesen said, and kissed Zevran's fingers where they dug against his shoulder. "I don't you suppose you have a bed where we could do this again?" _

"Zevran," Darrian said, into his ear. "Slow down."

He froze, aware of the rain pattering against his hair and his face and Darrian's hand on his arm. "Yes," he answered, as quietly. "This way."

He motioned Darrian on past another corner. The torchlight fluttered, reflections trapped and copper in the puddles. They would not be in the house, he thought. They would not be in the house because that would be foolish, and because that would lead to more easy deaths under his blades.

_If the enemy is coming, meet him_, he remembered, and he wondered where that would be.

"_It's about Rinna."_

_ "What about Rinna?"_

With knifing clarity he remembered Taliesen's voice that day. Words about bribes and betrayal and knowledge. He remembered how obvious it had been, how _true_ it had been. How true it _must _have been, since betrayal and deception were always more true than whispered, strange words of affection and loyalty.

Darrian snapped out his name, and instinctively, he turned. He heard the whine of an arrow above his head and the clattering thud as it cracked uselessly against the ground. A warning, he knew, since the death of a traitor was all the more satisfying when it happened beneath the edge of a knife.

"Wait," Zevran murmured when Darrian shifted. "_Wait_."

Beneath the low curve of an archway, the shadows stirred. As quickly as he dared, he guided the Warden with him until they were both braced against the wall on the far side of the street. He tasted the rain against his lips. Beneath his leathers, his shoulders were stiff.

He waited until he could count them, the shadows moving against the cobbles, across the slick shine of the puddles.

"And here you are," Taliesen said, and stepped out into the guttering flood of the torchlight. "Unless you'd prefer to sneak around and knife us in the back three at a time?"

For a long, uncertain moment, Zevran stared at him. He looked older somehow, older and more worn, lines at the corners of his eyes and a new scar tracking across one stubbled cheek. It had been a year, Zevran thought, maybe a little less, and he wondered suddenly how different _he_ looked.

"Well, if your friends wish to turn around to make it easier for me, certainly," Zevran responded.

"Drop your weapons."

"I don't think so."

"I'm here to talk," Taliesen said, and smiled.

"Oh? Talk, then."

"Leave with me and this can be a mistake, nothing more," Taliesen said. His hand strayed down to his sword, long fingers wrapping around the hilt. "Hand him over and we'll call it even."

"Really? Is that all?" Zevran returned the man's smile. Beside him, Darrian was rigid, his eyes flickering as he gazed at the Crows beneath the archway. "And why would I do that?"

"You'd keep your life," Taliesen said in the same cheerful tone. "Give me the Warden, and we'll finish it here, and then you'll have succeeded."

His planned, vicious reply died in his throat. "No," he said. "I'm sorry, my friend. I'm not coming back."

"No?" Idly, Taliesen drew his sword. "You don't even want to talk about it?"

"No," Zevran said, and leaped. He ploughed full-force into the Crow behind Taliesen's left shoulder. He drove his dagger into the Crow's belly and twisted, letting the momentum rip the blade clear. The Crow swayed, and Zevran swept his ankles out with a scything kick.

The Crow landed hard and stayed motionless, and Zevran kept moving, dancing between the next two. Somewhere on the other side of the alley, he heard the familiar snap and ring of Darrian's sword. He whirled and drove his elbow into the next Crow's throat. His follow-up strike with the dagger opened the man's neck to the bone.

He was moving too fast, he knew, too fast and too raggedly and too uncaring of the rainwater beneath his boots.

The flat of a sword smacked against his shoulders. Instinctively he dropped to his knees, and the blade sliced the air above his head. He rolled away and up to his feet and met the Crow's spinning attack with both blades. He slammed one foot against the inside of the Crow's thigh and the point of the dagger followed until he carved through leather and skin. The Crow crumpled, and when his arms sagged, the tip of his sword scraped an ugly, weeping gash across Zevran's chest. The pain shocked a gasp from his mouth. Too clumsily, he straightened up and turned. Across the alleyway, he saw the Warden, flitting deftly between two Crows. Two others lay on the cobbles behind him, their hands slack around their swords and their blood in crimson swathes beneath them.

Something heavy clipped his shoulder and spun him. Darrian shouted his name, frayed and uneven. Blindly, he kicked out, and his heel struck solid muscle. He flipped over, and was unsurprised when he found himself staring up into Taliesen's face. Beneath him, the cobbles were slippery and cold and when he tried to balance his weight again, his feet slithered.

"You're getting slow," Taliesen said.

"And you are getting lazy," Zevran replied. "Or did you _tell _them not to use poison?"

Taliesen's sword settled against the elf's hip. "Perhaps I was hoping to capture you alive."

"I don't make a very good prisoner. I enjoy being tied up too much."

"I remember. We could always spin ourselves a tale and take it back to Antiva with us. Perhaps none of this has been your fault. Perhaps all that needs to happen is for you to drop your sword and come with me."

Zevran loosened his grip on his sword. "That simply?"

"And the dagger."

"But I _like_ the dagger," he said, and shoved both knees up and into Taliesen's chest.

The man lurched away from him, and the sword point sketched an uneven line above Zevran's hipbone. He uncoiled upright and deflected Taliesen's next lunge. The man had recovered himself quickly and well, as Zevran expected. He crashed into Zevran again and again, each stroke of his sword ferocious.

He _knew_ Taliesen, knew that he fought beautifully, all snake-quick tenacity. More than once, Taliesen's sword hammered against his fast enough to drive him back. His boots slipped, and his eyelashes were heavy with the rain. He aimed a kick at Taliesen's thigh, and the man twisted until the blow glanced off the outside of his leg. As deftly, Taliesen followed up, and his sword darted past Zevran's and the point dug into Zevran's shoulder.

He wrenched away, aware of the hot burst of pain. Desperately, he blocked Taliesen's next stroke with his arm, the flat of the sword cracking against his bracer. He twisted his wrist sharply, and his dagger slid and caught against the sword hilt. He felt the lurching tug as Taliesen tried to pull free, and viciously fast, Zevran yanked himself away.

Taliesen stumbled, and Zevran was on him an instant later, slamming an elbow into his stomach. When he staggered, Zevran kicked his knees out and landed hard on his chest when he fell. He felt the man trying to breathe, huge gasps tearing through him. One hand flailed blindly for his sword, and Zevran drove the dagger between the bones of Taliesen's wrist.

"No," Zevran murmured. "Stay still for me."

Taliesen hissed, and when Zevran twisted the blade, his whole body went rigid. "Zevran."

"Mmm?" Idly, he plucked the dagger clear and watched the wet, twining path of the blood. "You wish to talk?"

"There'll be more of us."

"Oh, yes. This I know." He sighed, and added, "Taliesen, we know each other so very well, my friend. Why waste yourself on empty threats?"

"Come back, then."

"Oh?" He spun the dagger until the point was lodged beneath the man's chin. "No," he said, thoughtfully. "I do not think I will."

Taliesen shifted under him, scrabbling with one hand, trying to find purchase against the cobbles. Zevran cupped the back of Taliesen's neck and very gently, he drew him forward until the dagger opened his throat. He held on until the man stopped shaking, until the man's collar and his own hands were wet and bright with his blood.

"Zev," Darrian said, from some point behind him. "It's done."

"Yes." His hands snapped open, and the blade slithered free, and Taliesen fell again. He touched the side of Taliesen's face, rubbed his fingers beneath the angled slope of his cheekbone. "Done."

He felt Darrian's hand on his elbow, and he let the Warden guide him upright. He blinked slowly and wondered at the strange, sickening lightness in his belly. They needed to move the bodies, he knew, and mercifully, the Warden did not question. Silently he helped, and as silently, he stepped back and let Zevran shift Taliesen out of the torchlight. With numb hands he rifled through Taliesen's clothes until he found small vials of poison and a coinpurse and a dagger with the chunk missing from its blade.

Darrian touched his shoulder, and he let the Warden lead him away from the alley and away from Taliesen and away from the coppery spill of the blood.

At the estate, inside the Warden's room, Zevran sat on the end of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, and waited silently while the Warden demanded hot water and clean linen _now_. _He should have been smiling_, he thought. Smiling at the Warden, with his wiry frame and pale young features snapping out orders at Arl Eamon's servants, his blue eyes as fierce as if Zevran had just asked him to step into another fight.

"Sit down," Zevran said, and his own voice sounded hollow. "My Warden. You are making my head whirl watching you."

Darrian froze. "Sorry."

He needed to say something, anything to fill the febrile silence. _Anything_ to stop the Warden looking at him as if he might shatter. But the words would not come, and he sat wordlessly, staring down at Taliesen's blood on his gloves.

The maids brought the water, eventually, and when the Warden herded them out again, Zevran pushed up to his feet. Methodically, he stripped his boots and leathers off. The Warden brushed his arm, and he almost flinched.

"Zevran," the Warden said, and his fingers tightened on Zevran's arm. "Do you, I mean…"

For a long, uncertain moment, he leaned into the cradling pressure of the Warden's hand. _So easy_, he thought. So easy to close the small distance between them and lose himself in the Warden's arms.

_So easy_, he thought again, and turned away.

* * *

><p>Darrian cupped another handful of hot water and ladled it over Zevran's head. The assassin was silent, as he had been since he had eased himself into the water, his eyes pinned on the rippling surface. Darrian knelt, his arms crossed on the side of the bath, and wondered if he should say anything. He watched water droplets run off the loose ends of the assassin's golden hair, and murmured, "Zev, lean back."<p>

"Why?"

"Let me look at your shoulder."

"My shoulder is fine."

He pressed Zevran back against the side of the bath anyway, and when he explored the angry, raw line of the wound, the assassin did not complain. He cleaned the gash, and the one on Zevran's hip, and the long scrape across his chest. Afterwards, he guided the assassin up and out of the bath and into a towel. He found wrapped healing salves in his pack, and said, "Do you want to do it?"

Zevran took the salves wordlessly, and turned away. When he smoothed them into his skin, his hands trembled slightly. Darrian caught his wrists and heard the assassin's sharp intake of breath.

"Come here," he said. As carefully, he led the assassin to the bed. "I've never," he said, and coughed. "I'm sorry. I've never seen you like this."

"This?"

"Not talking," Darrian said, and forced his tone light and wry.

"No."

He kicked off his boots and shed his sword belt. As awkwardly, he peeled his leathers off. "Who was he?"

"He?"

"Taliesen. You called him Taliesen."

"We trained together. We were young together."

"What happened?"

Zevran's mouth opened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. "He said something to me that I believed. Maybe he believed it as well. And Rinna died. Because of me. Because of what I chose to believe."

"Zev, I don't…" Darrian looked at him, looked at the way his hands were clasped lifelessly on the sheets. "Who was Rinna?"

"Does it matter?" Zevran's lips curved into a slow, cold smile. "I suppose I can add _this_ to my debt to you, as well."

"_Zevran_." He shook his head. The pit of his stomach felt heavy, twisting, and helplessly he searched Zevran's face. "That's not…that's not why I did this."

"No? I cannot imagine I would be very useful to you, had Taliesen won."

"I did it for _you_," Darrian snapped. "Zev, it's not…it's never been about debt and payment. Not since," he said, and stopped. "It's just not."

"What is it then?"

He slipped his fingers beneath Zevran's jaw, felt the furious thump of the assassin's pulse. "It is about me helping you because I can. Because I prefer you alive and naked in my bed."

"The arl's bed."

He groaned. "Nice."

Zevran's smile was strange and tentative. "I prefer myself alive, as well, I think. Alive and with you."

"Good." Darrian drew the assassin down onto the sheets beside him. He cupped one hand over the assassin's shoulder and felt the locked tension in him. "You're sure you're alright?"

"Yes, I think I…yes." Zevran's head lifted. "Thank you. For whatever reason it was done. Thank you."

* * *

><p>The candles burned down, and rain hammered against the windows. Zevran lay curled around Darrian, his head curved against the Warden's shoulder. He let his fingers slide over Darrian's collarbone and up the column of the Warden's throat.<p>

"Tell me about Rinna."

He hesitated, and when the Warden did not push him, did not demand, something eased in his chest.

"She was beautiful," he said, half into the pillow, half into the side of Darrian's neck.

"Elven?"

"Yes. Beautiful and daring and so full of courage. I danced with her in the streets when they played music, and she danced with me when we were alone."

Darrian's fingers slipped through his hair, gently stroking, and he almost shoved them away. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and the words tumbled from his mouth. He remembered it, her hair loose and dragging across his belly, her mouth against his, hot and pliant, her back arching against his chest. His name on her lips, soft in the stifling heat.

_Her beautiful white throat opening under the dagger, and the floorboards shining with her blood. _

Taliesen had killed her and Zevran had held her and she had shuddered and gasped and it had taken far too long and they had both watched it happen.

"We were wrong," Zevran said. Against his cheek, Darrian's pulse was quicker, uneven. "She didn't…I was wrong. She had done nothing against us. The Crows knew and they knew that we had killed her. And they did not care."

Darrian's hands slid up and down his back, the rhythm of it silent and patient.

"Anything we thought we knew that was dangerous was not. _We_ were not, and Rinna had never been. All that mattered was that we belonged to the Crows, and without them, we were nothing." He sighed, and it turned into a shudder that wracked him. "Afterwards, I went with Taliesen to his rooms and we had each other until we wore ourselves out. He slept, and I wondered if I should kill him."

"You didn't."

"No. I let him wake up, and the next day, we did the work the Crows asked of us. And a lot of days after that, until I heard that assassins were needed in Ferelden, and I went there."

"Why Ferelden?"

"I didn't ask. Not then." He closed his eyes and listened to the soft sounds of the Warden breathing, the Warden's hands against his back. "It was somewhere else."

* * *

><p>Darrian woke to the gloom and the assassin's weight pinning his left arm to the bed. He shifted slightly, and Zevran sighed something, almost wordless. The assassin's hand covered his, and he froze.<p>

"Yes, I am awake," Zevran murmured. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I just woke up." He wreathed his fingers through the assassin's properly. "Zev?"

"Hmm?"

"The next time you are pursued by the Crows all the way across the country, I am _not_ standing right beside you while they point swords, knives and arrows at us while I just _hope_ your plan is going to work."

"Plan? Did I ever say I had a plan?"

Zevran's voice turned easy and lilting, and the Warden smiled. "So 'stay beside me and don't move until I do' wasn't a plan?"

"It was an idea."

"Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

The assassin's back slid against his chest. "Can I stop you?" Zevran said.

For a long moment, he faltered. He could see nothing past the line of the assassin's shoulder, corded with muscle and tense. He wondered suddenly if he _should_ speak, if he even wanted any kind of answer. But he had seen Zevran's face when he had cut Taliesen's throat, when his fingers had trembled beneath the dark-haired man's jaw.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"About what?"

"You knew it would be Taliesen sent after you."

Zevran exhaled slowly. "I suspected. I did not want you troubled."

He leaned his forehead against Zevran's shoulder. Unbidden, he laughed, and retorted, "Zev, I have to speak out at a Landsmeet and then I have to stop the Blight. Don't you think I'm troubled enough?"

"Perhaps," Zevran answered, and his tone was lighter. "I am simply…unused to such things. So, thank you."

"Stop that," Darrian told him. Gently, he bit the assassin's shoulder and added, "I'm not trying to get you to thank me over and over. There's no need."

"No, there is a need. I have never…" Zevran pressed the Warden's fingers against his mouth. "It is not what I am used to."

Darrian swallowed. He battled to think of something to say, something that might push aside the strange, fluttering uneasiness in him. "You know how you gave yourself away?"

"What?"

"You were too quiet. You've always talked. Even when I haven't. _Especially _when I haven't."

Zevran laughed. "Someone has to fill your silences, my Warden."

"Is that a complaint or a compliment?"

"More an acceptance of a challenge."

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"You're welcome," he said, and bowed his head against the side of the assassin's neck.

He lay there until sleep claimed him again, dreamless and exhausted. He stirred to the noise of someone knocking at the door. For a long moment he tried to hide beneath the warm, lazy arch of Zevran's arm. When the knocking only continued, insistent and loud, he staggered out of bed and kicked his way into his breeches.

He opened the door and mumbled, "Yes, what?"

Alistair blinked at him. "You're alright?"

"What? Yes." He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

Alistair glanced past his bare shoulder, and the joke Darrian expected did not come.

"What's wrong?" Darrian asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Alistair said. "We need to see Arl Eamon. He said it's about the queen."


	9. Trapped

_As always, a huge thank you goes to everyone who's reading and following this story. Reviews are always welcome. **  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Nine – Trapped**_

"_Slow down! Darrian, slow down." _

_ He shoved Soris' hand away from his arm. His shirt clung to his shoulders, patched with sweat. The dull throb of new bruises distracted him. They had to keep moving, he knew, keep moving and keep moving fast before the entire estate knew where they were. _

_ "Come on," he snarled, and darted through another doorway. He ran shoulder-first into a guard, and for some stupid, surprised reason, the man stumbled away from him. He followed, twisting and driving the borrowed sword up in a vicious arc. The blade bit in just beneath the line of the guard's breastplate, and the man's knees sagged. Darrian caught him, the weight enough to make him stagger._

_ The next room held three of them, and frantically he tried to remember what his mother had said. He had been so young then, barely listening, twirling the wooden practice sword idly between his spun between the first two guards and heard the third's startled cry. _

_ "Keep moving," she had said, on that day that had been full of the sunlight and the brine-sharp wind over the high walls. "Feet light. Weight balanced. And always remember that your sword in their back will have you moving on again all the faster." _

_ He raked the edge of his sword across one guard's thigh. When he swayed, his face contorting, Darrian lunged past him and buried his sword in the second man's throat. He spun again and let his own impetus swing him back towards the first guard, where a single stroke laid the man flat. _

"Darrian," Zevran murmured into his ear. "Slow down. As flimsy as these disguises may prove, I would prefer to keep our illusion strong a _little_ longer."

"Sorry," he mumbled back. He forced his pace slower and tried to ignore the awful details, that his sword was filthy with blood inside its scabbard, that the borrowed guardsman's uniform he wore dragged against his shoulders.

Behind him, Alistair and Leliana followed, their footsteps cautious and measured. Room by careful room, they had moved through the new Arl of Denerim's estate, painfully wary of noise. More than a few times, Alistair had stood watch and Zevran had silently killed the arl's guards, poisoned blades dipping out of the shadows.

_All on a maid's word,_ Darrian thought, and pressed on again, through another archway and down steep stone steps. _A maid's promise of a queen's honesty. _

A queen who was also Loghain's daughter, and he remembered the fierce intelligence in her father's eyes, the day of the arranged meeting. He wondered if she would hide her own cleverness, if her eyes would be the same as his, unflinching and strong and cold. Through the locked door upstairs, the queen's voice had been measured and precise, and some suspicious part of him wondered even now how much of a prisoner she truly was.

A narrow corridor led down and down again, and water ran in thick dark lines down the grey stone. There were dungeons down here, a tangled warren of rooms and passageways that never saw sunlight, and he could not guess how long it might take them to find the queen's captor, the man she called Arl Howe.

Zevran's hand brushed his elbow, and he paused, head tilted to listen. He glanced at the assassin, and then back to the other two. Footsteps against the stone floor, and enough that he could not hope to guess how many guards waited beyond the next archway. As cautiously, he kept moving, head down and eyes pinned on the floor, and desperately he tried to ignore the prickle of sweat between his shoulders.

* * *

><p>Somewhere beneath the great halls and chambers of the estate, the shadows rippled, sent wheeling by hanging torches. In a small, cramped cell they had a found a dark-haired man who claimed to be a Grey Warden, and Darrian had stared had him for a long, wary moment, his sword half unsheathed, until Alistair caught his wrist.<p>

_"No, it's alright. He's one of us." Alistair's mouth shifted into a rueful grin. "The awkward part is that I can't remember his name." _

_ "I am Riordan," the man answered, and his accent was rolling and musical. "And since you are Alistair, your friend must be one of Duncan's recruits." _

_ Darrian loosened his grip on his sword hilt. _ _"That's right," he answered, and heard the cagey, clipped note in his own voice. _

They had offered the dark-haired man salves and water, and they had guarded the long narrow passageway when he fled into the darkness with a borrowed dagger and an oath to meet them at Arl Eamon's estate.

Further in, past a chamber with walls that were streaked red, the queen's captor fell beneath the punishing sweep of Alistair's shield and then the scything arc of Alistair's sword. Six paces behind him, his own sword buried in the throat of a dead mage, Darrian saw the rigid set to Alistair's shoulders. Silently, he watched as Alistair jerked his sword free. As stiffly, Alistair shook the dripping blade and muttered, "He's dead. We need to find his keys."

While Leliana knelt, her nimble fingers running over the dead man's clothes, Darrian rolled his shoulders. Tiredly, he tugged off his borrowed helmet. He raked his hands through his hair and grimaced when he found it matted and heavy.

"You need a bath," Zevran murmured. "Preferably one that involves me helping you get yourself exquisitely clean."

"Later," he responded, and could not quite hide his smile. Awkwardly, he settled the helmet back on. "Alright. Let's see if we can get out of here without having to kill _too _many people."

* * *

><p>The queen was beautiful, Zevran thought, but her beauty was that of ice and alabaster skin and a calculatingly haughty bearing. He had seen the thoughtful, almost casual way she had looked at them, looked at them all. She had wasted bare moments on the comely bard, almost less on him, and her level gaze had lingered on the Wardens.<p>

And now she walked between the Wardens, her head up and her shoulders back, and Zevran allowed himself a small, vicious smile. The queen played with them, he knew, but he did not know her rules, nor the players who moved alongside her.

_And_, he thought, _he should not care_.

This was about helping his Warden, and moving further into his own freedom, and that was all.

At the gates there were guards, their bright, polished armour catching the torchlight, and Zevran was almost mildly surprised. Their leader was a woman, slimly muscled and striking beneath dark hair, a sword slung across her shoulders. The queen halted, and stepped back, away from the Wardens. When she spoke, her voice carried beautifully, and he wondered if she had practiced her words. She spoke of treacherous Wardens and their scheming plots and her own helplessness in their web.

"Lay down your weapons," the woman in armour said. Her hand slid up to the hilt of her sword. "Lay them down, and you will come with me."

"Step aside and let us leave, and we'll let you live," Darrian answered.

"With the queen at your side? I don't think so. You're Wardens," the woman said, and her sword sheared free. "And you and your fellows are responsible for the murder of King Cailan."

Darrian moved first, launching himself off one foot. His sword carved a livid arc and embedded beneath the leather strap of a guardsman's helmet. On his other side, Alistair spun, and the solid rim of his shield smacked full-force into another guard's chest.

There were too many of them, far too many, and Zevran had time to wonder just _what_ Darrian thought he was doing before the flat of a blade glanced against his side. He dropped and rolled away. Shoving up to his feet again, he pirouetted and buried his dagger to the hilt in the guard's throat. Deliberately, he wove his way between three more until his shoulder brushed Darrian's.

The Warden spun, his sword chiming against the downswing of a guard's blade.

"The queen," he hissed into Zevran's ear. He twisted again, and a punishing kick sent the guardsman sprawling. "Go. Get her away. _Now_."

"No," Zevran snarled back. He heard the ratcheting clank as Leliana fired her crossbow again. The wicked, slender bolts were coated in poison, he knew, and he heard another guard's pained shriek as the shot hit home.

"Do it," Darrian whispered, and his next lunge overextended his balance. He stumbled to right himself. "Please, Zev. _Now_."

He wanted to shout back that _no_, he would _not_ be going, not without some promise from his Warden. But another guard's blade curved into the space between them, and he threw himself away desperately. He hit the floor hard and came up staggering. Bitterly, he understood. Arl Eamon wished to see the proof of the queen's allegiance. _That_ came first, since the arl would speak beside the Wardens at the Landsmeet, and since the queen's voice would matter so very much.

He said nothing. Viciously fast, he slipped between two more guardsmen. The point of his dagger bit beneath the edge of their mail, at the back of their calves, and they swayed. He bolted past another three and kicked the fourth's feet out from under him. When he hurtled past Leliana, he grasped her arm and wrenched her along after him. She matched his pace. With deft fingers she holstered the crossbow, and then her hands fell to her knives. Brutally fast, she spun beside him as they cut their way to the gates. Low, slicing attacks that crippled and toppled, and more than once, Zevran drove his heel against a fallen guard's throat.

Behind him, he heard voices, raised in anger and fury and the sudden, sharp sound of someone screaming. He turned too slowly, and a mailed fist slammed against the side of his head, sending him reeling. Another blow unbalanced him entirely, and his knees jarred against the floor.

He looked up through prickling sweat and managed a grin when Leliana's dagger gouged open the guard's throat.

The bard heaved him up to his feet. "Come on."

He tasted blood inside his mouth, and more on his lips. The bard's fingers scrabbled at his arm, and when she said his name, her voice was frayed.

"Zevran," she said again, frantic. "There's no time. Come _on_."

He whirled and flung himself at another guard, his sword sinking in and angling up under the man's ribs. He moved on quickly, and at the gates, he forcibly grasped the queen's arm. Some half-buried, amused part of him noticed her startled gasp.

"We're _rescuing_ you, your Majesty," he snapped at her, and jerked her closer. "Don't you remember?"

"But Cauthrien…"

He heard the whine of steel on steel, and past the queen's shoulder, he could see little more than the press of the guards. His Warden was in there somewhere, he knew, cornered and outnumbered.

"Is busy," Zevran growled. He waited, every nerve on fire, while Leliana shouldered the gates open. He dug his fingers into the queen's arm again and then he was stepping beneath the archway, and into the grey afternoon outside.

* * *

><p>Darrian's heels skidded, and when he tried to straighten up fast, the flat of a sword slapped against his arm. He glared through sweat-stung eyes at the guardsman nearest. His shoulder was against the solid side of Alistair's arm, and when he looked up at the man's face, he saw his own awful realization there.<p>

_They were being corralled_.

Pushed back against each other, and each stroke of the guards' swords were biting, teasing strikes meant to wound, meant to challenge and then melt away. He heard the dark-haired woman call another order. He tried to settle his stance again, but a punishing blow across his sword spoiled his balance.

Something hard cracked across the back of his head. The impact drove him to his knees. Through pounding pain, he turned and raggedly raised his sword. Alistair said his name and it sounded all wrong, thick and slurred and far away. Something else clanked too close to his ears, and he flinched.

"That's right," someone said, and caught his wrist. "Drop it."

He tried to wrench away. Another punch to the back of his neck turned his vision white. He heard the belling clang as his sword dropped from his numbed fingers. He tried to say Alistair's name, tried to tell him to get himself out and keep moving and keep himself safe. He was aware of hands on his arms, under his arms, lifting him. Lifting him fast enough that dizziness assailed him and darkness clamped down.

He surfaced slowly, and when he tried to move, he found that his wrists were roped. He twisted against something rough that jolted with a rocking, uneven motion. Horses, he thought, and wheels as they rumbled against cobbles. He raised his head and saw nothing, only blackness.

"Alistair?" He tried to flip himself over, and the motion made him shudder. "Alistair, are you here?"

Someone grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. "Lie down, elf," came a man's voice, guttural. "We've a way to go, and I don't want to have to punch you quiet again."

He nodded, and when the man let him go, he fell into uneasy, exhausted sleep. He woke later, his head tight and pounding. Gently, he shifted his jaw and winced. Blood slicked one side of his tongue, and silently he gagged. Mailed hands caught his shoulders and turned him, yanked him up to his feet.

They guided him out of the carriage, and torchlight made him squint and turn away. They were silent as they motioned him at sword-point up stone stairs. He smelled rust and copper and the deep, fetid reek of death. He passed closed doors and through long corridors and they steered him past locked cages.

"There, elf." A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Clothes off and in there."

"What?"

Almost casual, the blow made him stumble. He raised his head and glared through tangled black hair.

"Still some fight in you?" The man laughed. "They warned you might be stubborn."

"I'm not setting foot in there. I've done nothing wrong."

"I'm going to free your hands, and you'll take your clothes off, and then I'll tie your hands again. Else I can just do it all for you."

"Alright," Darrian said, and lifted his bound hands.

He waited while the ropes were loosened. He drove his knee up at the man's leg and swore out loud when the ropes were grabbed and pulled taut again. Someone behind him kicked the back of his knees out, and the man caught him when he slumped.

"Very stubborn," the man said, and laughed. "Get his clothes off."

Close to frantic, Darrian thrashed while they unsnapped buckles and untangled ties and tugged at his leathers. But he was too wearingly tired, and all the strength had leeched from his shoulders and his hands and every muscle in his legs ached. They hauled him upright and marched him into one of the cages. He did not turn when the bars swung closed, and somehow he masked the terrible, frightened shudder that ran through him. He made himself study the small, cramped contours of the cage, the flaking bars and cold stone floor and tin water bowl and nothing else. Against his bare skin, the air was damp.

Awkwardly, he knelt and tried to curl himself in one of the corners. Somewhere close by, he heard footsteps, and a door swinging shut. He sighed, and it escaped his mouth in a shuddering, painful rush. He waited, watching the flutter of torchlight through the bars, until sleep claimed him.

"Darrian? Darrian, it's me."

Someone touched his shoulder, and he flinched awake. He tried to shove himself away, too aware of his bound hands and the chill press of the stone against his side.

"Darrian, it's _me_," Alistair said helplessly. His hands slid against Darrian's shoulder, and he said, "Please. It's just me."

Wildly, Darrian stared up at him. "Oh. Alistair. Oh. I didn't…I'm so sorry."

"Come here," Alistair said, and gently motioned him upright. When he swayed, Alistair steadied him, his hands falling to the ropes. "Stay still."

He waited, aware of the throbbing in his head. Alistair worked the knots open and pulled the rope aside, and he rolled his hands together.

"Thank you." He looked up, and into Alistair's questioning brown eyes. "I suppose they didn't want it to be easy."

"No." Alistair rocked back on his heels. He was stripped to his smallclothes as well, and bruises mapped the broad sweep of his shoulders. Blood leaked in uneven ribbons across his knuckles, and another scrape looped around his elbow. "Are you alright?"

"I hurt everywhere. Why did I do that?"

"Do what?"

"I kicked him. One of them. When they brought me in here. They weren't very happy about it."

Lopsidedly, Alistair grinned. "Not your brightest moment."

"Not at all. Where are we, do you know?"

"Fort Drakon. I think. I guess."

"Lovely." He sank onto the floor until he sat cross-legged, staring at his own hands. "Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"I think I made a mistake. I didn't know what else to do. I just…Arl Eamon talked so much about the queen, about needing to hear her. I thought…I don't know what I thought."

"Well, all _I _thought was, how in the name of Andraste's flaming sword were we supposed to get out of there still breathing." Alistair scrubbed a hand across his face. "We're still breathing."

"Yes, I know. I just…" He shook his head. The exhaustion was prickling at his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I never planned for this to happen. I didn't think."

"Hey," Alistair said, and gently cuffed Darrian's shoulder. "We'll get out of here."

"Why do you always do that?"

"What?"

"Assume that everything's going to be alright."

Alistair sighed. "Because if I didn't I'd have to be serious about things. Because if I didn't, I'd have to actually think about the alternative."

Guiltily, Darrian gazed down at his linked hands again. The silence stretched until the heaviness in his chest threatened to swell up again. "I sent him away," he said, almost to himself. "I told him to go because I knew that he would."

"Darrian," Alistair said, softly. "If he'd stayed – if they'd both stayed – they'd be dead. Those guards were Howe's and Loghain's. They weren't interested in Zevran and Leliana. They wanted us."

"I know."

"And I know it doesn't make you feel any better."

Darrian laughed then, an uneven gulping kind of laugh. He chewed at the backs of his knuckles until the strange ache inside him subsided slightly. "You know."

"Of course I know. I'm not as stupid as I look." Alistair eyed the stone floor. "I'm still not sure how you were able to _sleep_ on that earlier."

"I was tired."

"Obviously. Try it again."

"I don't feel like it."

"You're obstinate as rock sometimes, you know that?" Alistair slouched onto his side. He skimmed his fingertips along the floor. "We're both worn out. I can't think straight. I doubt you can. We need to rest."

Grudgingly, Darrian complied, curling himself close enough to Alistair that he could see the man's expression, see the shadows beneath his eyes. He pillowed his head on one crooked arm. "I'm not going to be able to sleep."

"Keep complaining," Alistair murmured back, eyes closed. "I'm not listening."

"Yes, you are."

"Be quiet."

* * *

><p>Without ceremony, Zevran shouldered the door open. The crackling heat of a fire met him, and Arl Eamon's startled glance from where he sat at the writing table, parchment spread beneath his hands.<p>

"Your Grace?" Zevran waited only until the bard closed the door behind them, until she stepped to the queen's other side. "May I present her Majesty, safe and well and breathing."

Eamon's chair jolted back against the rug when he stood. "Thank the Maker."

"Not just yet, your Grace," Zevran said, in the same merrily vicious tone. "Your Wardens are missing. Captured, in fact. Perhaps her Majesty and yourself would care to discuss in detail the sensible nature of _throwing away_ the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, yes?"

He spun on his heel, inclined his head to the queen, and stalked into the corridor. Leliana followed him, and when she grasped his elbow, he jerked away from her.

"Zevran."

"What?" Sharply, he exhaled. "They _have_ them now, both of them. And we do not know where, and we do not know why. Yes, we can guess, you and I can both guess the why of it, but we are most embarrassingly at a disadvantage."

The hard line of her mouth softened. "Zevran. We'll find him. We'll find them both."

Gingerly, he pushed his fingers beneath his hair, felt heat and wetness. His hand came away blood-stained, and he grimaced.

"You need to see Wynne," the bard told him firmly. "Zevran?"

He paused mid-stride. "Yes, what?"

"In this city there is only one place they will be taken," she said. "They will go to the prison at Fort Drakon. They are too important for anywhere else."

He gave her a clipped nod. "Tell the others. And tell them to wait."

"Why?"

"I need to think," he answered.

He chose the shortest way to the library. He counted his own steps and the sconces on the walls and the rapid tempo of his own breathing. The awful coiling tension in his belly was _panic_, and when he tried to will himself calmer, his thoughts scattered again.

_Taken. His Warden had been _taken_ from him. _

He prowled in past the heavy oak doors and discovered the mage in her favourite chair. Her head lifted, and when she saw him, she frowned. "What happened?"

He heaved the doors closed. "Taken. Gone. _Captured_," he snapped, aware that his voice was rough and strained. "Both of them."

"Slow down," Wynne said. She closed her book and regarded him with curious gentleness. "Now. Tell me again, and properly."

He did, pacing along the length of the hearth while he spoke, each word terse and angry. His hands dropped to his sword hilt, his dagger hilt, his belt, anything to keep his mind from settling too long.

"So," he said. "There it is. Will you tell me now that I should have been all the more charming to her Majesty, and to the arl? That I should ask them for help?"

"No. Not at all. Come here."

He obeyed, moving so that he stood in the fall of sunlight. She clasped his face between cool, slender fingers, tilted his head.

"You are very badly bruised," she told him. She called up the soft, gentle glow of a healing spell, and the deep throbbing ache in his skull and his cheekbones faded slightly. "Were you never taught to use your sword instead of your head to block attacks?"

"Oh, well, savage my dignity, as well, won't you?" He grinned. He waited while another healing spell sank beneath his skin. "Mmm. Much better."

"Good." Wynne regarded him through level eyes. "Now. What do you need?"

"Right now? I never thought you'd come around to my way of thinking, dear lady."

"Zevran."

"Salves," he said, and nodded. "And perhaps you could distract the arl and his new guest. I don't think _everyone_ needs to know where I'm going."

"Be careful," Wynne said.

"Dear lady, when am I not?" When she did not smile, he sighed. "Have it your own way, then."

Upstairs, he sharpened both daggers and his sword until their edges whined when he spun them. He needed a way to get himself inside the fort, and preferably a way inside that involved deception first and outright violence later. The guards who had been foolish enough to lay hands on his Warden should die, and he would kill them all if he had to, but he knew the value of trickery.

The door swung in, and he whirled in time to see Darrian's huge, brown-furred mabari lumber in across the threshold.

"No, he's not here," Zevran snapped. "Go bother someone else."

The dog tilted his head, and his black, liquid eyes regarded the elf thoughtfully.

"You're judging me, are you?" He sighed. He laid the blades across the windowseat. Cautiously, he stood and held out one hand so the dog could nose at his fingers. The dog lapped at his palm, and Zevran grimaced. "Yes, lovely. Thank you." He tried to step around the dog, but the creature turned so that heavy, muscled shoulders blocked him. "Oh, alright." He dug his fingers behind the dog's ears and wondered silently if he was already mad. "I'll find him, yes? I'll find him and then you can bother _him_ all you want."

The dog lipped at his hand again, very gently, before lunging up onto the bed and curling on top of the rumpled sheets.

"No," Zevran said, and sighed again. "Oh, very well. But you're getting off there as _soon_ as we get back."

Pointedly, he ignored the dog and turned back to the windowseat. With brisk, practiced speed, he painted each of his blades with the thick, bitter poison he knew would stop a grown man nerveless and a hairsbreadth from death with a single stroke. When he heard footsteps near the door again, he spun, already halfway to shouting for his intruder to _leave_ him alone to _think_.

"Hey, elf," Oghren called, and kicked the door open. "You going after them?"

Zevran paused and slowly uncurled his fingers. "Yes."

"Want some help?"

"No."

"Oh, please." The dwarf laughed. "Just you and your pretty face against a fortress full of guards? They'll slice your ears off before you get three paces inside."

"And I'm certain your particular brand of ale-soaked enthusiasm will have them just _fleeing_."

"You're a funny boy when you put your mind to it." Oghren folded his arms and scowled. "I say we go together."

"Do you?"

"You're shaking, elf. If I can see it from here, how long do you think you'll last getting yourself inside that place?"

Zevran drew in a slow breath. "I will be using you as a walking shield against any hails of arrows, sweeps of axes and charging dragons we might encounter, you understand?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way. What's your plan, then?"

Zevran grinned and felt some of the tension seep from his shoulders. "You're going to have to change clothes."


	10. Golden

_As always, a very big thank-you goes to everyone who's reading, reviewing and has this story on alerts or favourites. I own little, and reviews are always welcome. **  
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_**Chapter Ten – Golden**_

In the cell, the hours crawled by slowly. Once, a guard brought water. Darrian gauged the distance to the man's mailed shoulder and wondered if he could hurl himself close to enough to grab at his arm and swing him. He shifted onto his heels and the guard turned, his sword sliding half out of its scabbard.

Alistair's hand tightened on his elbow and grudgingly he waited while the door closed again.

"No, getting yourself skewered by some enthusiastic guard is _not_ useful," Alistair muttered.

"Sorry."

"You'd've been more sorry if you'd tried it."

"Alright," Darrian said, and summoned a tired grin.

Much later, Alistair talked about growing up in the monastery and Darrian responded with stories of causing trouble with Soris. After Alistair said something about templar sword drill, and Darrian retaliated with how his mother had once woken him at dawn without mercy for reflexes slowed by the winter cold, the silence stretched again.

Darrian paced the floor twice, and again, until the soles of his feet smarted from the chill. He sat beside Alistair again, his shoulder against the man's arm, and tried to think of nothing more than the small piece of warmth between them. His thoughts flitted, and again and again, he thought of how he had told Zevran to go, to take the queen and _leave_. He remembered the assassin's face, open with angry surprise.

It _had_ been the right choice, and he knew that. Even so, the guilt swam in his belly, and his mind would not stay sensibly blank.

_The afternoon sun lingered, and the sky stayed blue and clear and inviting. Almost without thinking, Darrian picked his way through the birch trees and to the river. He found Zevran there, the assassin perched on one of the flat rocks halfway across, arms around his knees and distractingly shirtless. _

_ "Missed me already, did you?"_

_ "Well, camp was far too quiet without you," Darrian retorted mildly. _

_ Zevran laughed. He patted the empty patch of stone beside him. "Join me?"_

_ Darrian hopped and wobbled his way across the river. Without his pack, without the familiar weight of his leathers, his shoulders felt strangely light. He sat cross-legged beside the assassin and stared down at the glassy play of the water. "I like this."_

_ "The sun?"_

_ "And the quiet. It lets me pretend that I don't have anything important to do."_

_ Zevran chuckled. "All this will end sometime, my Warden. And then you will have all the time you wish in which to do nothing important."_

_ "Really? And will this be while you're out wooing bored noblewomen?"_

_ "Oh, that depends."_

_ "On the noblewomen?"_

_ "On you." _

_ The assassin was teasing him, he knew, teasing him like he always did, with challenging smiles and easy words. Even so, something warm uncoiled through him, and he smiled. "Oh? You'd stay if I demanded it?"_

_ "I would stay if you asked it."_

_ Darrian opened his mouth, and whatever silly, inconsequential thing he wanted to say vanished. "Then maybe I'll ask you. Some time. After we've saved Ferelden and defeated the Blight, of course." _

_ Zevran leaned down and cupped his hands together. The water filled his palms, trembling and clear. "Oh? Is that all we need do?"_

_ Darrian watched as the water streamed through Zevran's fingers. "Yes," he said. "That's all." _

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"I'm…very scared." The cold seemed to be under his skin, seeping into his bones. Tremors ran through him and he wrapped his arms around his shins.

"Yes, I…me too." Alistair sighed. "They can't be as stupid as to think keeping us in here until we die of boredom or hunger is a good idea. Not with the Blight."

"No, because _everyone_ in this forsaken city just _knows_ that we're going to save them all and beat the archdemon over the head with its own tail."

"Or they could just execute us both tonight," Alistair snapped. Then he groaned and added, "Sorry."

"So am I," Darrian said, slightly wry. "We have to do something."

"I've looked at the door. And the locks. We're not going anywhere."

"Maybe we could scream until we annoy someone enough that they come to shut us up."

Alistair snorted. "Yes, and then I could grab him through the bars and hope he meets the floor head-first."

"That could work. Or just get us thrown in separate cells."

"Fine. _You_ think of something."

"I didn't…" Darrian shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm not making much sense and I'm taking it out on you. Did I tell you I went to see my father?"

"Yes," Alistair answered, softly.

"He looked so old. I've only been away a few months, and he looked so old. Do you know what I thought?"

"What?"

"I wondered whether I looked different. To him."

"Do you think you did?"

"I think maybe I looked older, too."

"Not any taller, though, I imagine," Alistair said, and nudged him.

"Oh, you're so funny. Am I making any sense this time?"

"Yes, you are. We all change, I think. You, me. That assassin who follows you around worse than the mabari."

He heard the smile in Alistair's voice. Mildly, he answered, "Keep that up and I'll tell you exactly what he does that makes it worth it."

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," Alistair told him archly.

"I'm ignoring that and going to sleep." Darrian mustered up a glare before folding himself on his side again. He leaned his face against crossed arms and asked, "Let me know if anything happens?"

"I'll be here."

* * *

><p>He stirred to Alistair's hand on his shoulder and the blurred awareness of rapid footsteps nearby. He straightened up and winced when something pulled in his back.<p>

"Hear that?" Alistair murmured.

The noise of _combat_, he realised. Some strange aching hope ran through him. The distinctive sound of swords and mail and footfalls and men shouting. Somewhere closer, a door slammed. Another man yelled, his order for more help lost to a sudden, wet gurgle.

"Mutiny, you think?" Darrian replied.

"Why not? Or a dragon, maybe."

"Very funny."

They waited, poised and uncertain, both of them listening as something heavy hit the floor, not far away. Another rush of footsteps, and the door at the far end of the chamber crashed open. The whistling shriek of an arrow cut the silence, and another, and finally a choked-out groan. Someone said something in loud, uncaring, recognisable tones, and Alistair grinned.

"No," he said. "You don't think…?"

Darrian shook his head. "If they did, they're _insane_."

The door closed again, quietly and carefully. There was the rasping clunk of someone pulling a torch out of its bracket, and through the bars, Darrian saw the light spill across Zevran's gloved hand.

"Zevran," he murmured.

Zevran turned, his shoulders all coiled with tension, and he exchanged a quick, terse glance with Oghren. The dwarf nodded and dragged the torch away, so that the light fluttered through the bars.

Darrian had time to wonder why they were both clad in silk, crimson and blood-splashed white, and then Zevran's head lifted, and Darrian saw his face. His skin was sallow, and the swirls of his tattoos seemed too dark. His golden hair hung in sweat-soaked handfuls, and the blades he held in both hands gleamed bright with blood.

_What had he done_, Darrian wondered suddenly. _How had he done this? _

The assassin and the dwarf closed the distance to the cell. Oghren fumbled with a key, and the door swung wide, and Darrian found himself looking into Zevran's amber eyes.

"Zevran," he managed, thickly. "You…you're red?"

The assassin brushed a hand along one silk sleeve. "We're in disguise. Did you miss me, my dear Warden?"

Darrian swallowed, and when his eyes blurred, he turned away. He heard Oghren as he bellowed out a greeting to Alistair, and then Zevran's hand ghosted along his shoulder.

"You're hurt, my Warden," the assassin said, gently. "Come. Do you know where they kept your belongings?"

"I…" He shrugged away from the assassin's hands. "Don't know. I don't know."

"Darrian," Zevran said, but the Warden did not let him finish.

He spun and buried himself in the assassin's arms, pressing his face against the assassin's shoulder until all he could see was darkness, until all he could feel was the slow, trembling movement of the assassin's hand against the back of his head.

"Darrian," Zevran said again, and his voice was heavy with something very like longing. "Darrian. We need to go."

"Yes." He dragged his head up and kissed Zevran's mouth, frantic and rough. "Yes, I know."

"Oh, ancestors, can't you two do that _later?_" Oghren grinned and tugged at Darrian's arm. "You don't want me scarred, do you?"

"Nothing could scar you," Alistair muttered.

Somehow, aching, Darrian made himself step away from the assassin. He heard himself agree to stay put and wait while Zevran and Oghren scouted back out into the corridor. It took them too long to come back, and he wrapped his fingers around the bars to keep himself still. The corridors past the cells were streaked with blood. He counted too many dead guardsmen, their throats open and wet and gleaming. In a small armoury Zevran found his discarded clothes, and Alistair's, and propped on another chest, their weapons. He dressed clumsily, his fingers tangling uselessly between his laces. Wordlessly, Zevran helped him, and murmured, "You are very tired, my Warden. Stay behind me, yes?"

He nodded, and in the corridors beyond, he obeyed. Few guardsmen troubled them, and they fell beneath the vicious bite of Zevran's blades and the thudding swing of Oghren's axe. With cold, clinical efficiency, the assassin drove his dagger into the nape of one man's neck. His momentum carried him around, and he buried his sword in another guard's chest. Darrian watched, Alistair's hand on his elbow, and some part of him wanting desperately to rush forward and _help_.

"Come on," Oghren called, and shouldered the door open. "Hall's deserted. Let's get ourselves gone before more of the bastards turn up to check."

Outside, the night was deep and dark and heavy with the scent of smoke. More than once, Darrian stumbled, and Zevran chivvied him on mercilessly, one hand hard against the small of Darrian's back. He staggered again, and Zevran held him upright and shoved him onwards. In the arl's gardens, they slowed at last, and Darrian half-listened as Zevran asked Alistair if he was hurt.

"No, not really," Alistair answered. "Roughed up. And _hungry_. Really hungry."

"Come on, then," Oghren said, and slapped Alistair's shoulder. "Let's get out of here before he starts wrapping himself around the damn Antivan again."

Darrian laughed until it turned into a cough. "Thanks, Oghren."

"You're welcome, Warden. Now get out of here before you fall over."

* * *

><p>In Zevran's room the fire glowed, and Darrian sat beside the hearth while the assassin lit candles. He buried his hands in the dog's thick, warm fur and did not move, even when the dog leaned too heavily against his leg. Zevran unbuckled his sword and his dagger and wasted too much time leaning them against the back of the chair. The silence stretched, and Darrian ignored it and rubbed his knuckles behind the dog's ears.<p>

"That monstrous animal of yours wouldn't leave me alone," Zevran remarked.

"See? He likes you."

"Oh, and it had nothing to do with you and your fellow Warden being missing, and me in all likelihood smelling of you? He kept licking me."

"You never complain when I do that."

"You have actually managed to appall me. Happy now?"

"Very."

"And in any case, he was licking my _hand_."

"Good," Darrian retorted, slightly wry.

Zevran stopped, poised on the rug, his hands hooked around his belt. "Will you come and sit with me?"

Darrian nodded. He stroked the dog's head for another long moment. He pushed up to his feet, and his head whirled. "Oh," he said, through gritted teeth. "That's not very good."

Zevran's hands steadied him again, and the assassin steered him onto the end of the bed. Unhurried, Zevran unbuckled Darrian's leathers and peeled them away, tugged his boots off and drew his sweat-splotched shirt up. Very gently, the assassin slid an arm around Darrian's waist. He moved no closer, and when Darrian did not turn, he said nothing.

"You came for me," Darrian said into the silence. "Zevran."

"Yes," he answered, and his voice sounded stilted. "Of course I did."

Darrian covered the assassin's hand with his. "Thank you."

"There is no need to thank me."

"No, there is a need," he said, deliberately, and when he heard Zevran's lilting laugh, something inside him eased. "So, thank you."

The assassin's other arm settled around his waist. "You are most welcome."

He leaned back against the wall of the assassin's chest, solid and unmoving and warm. He remembered Zevran's face in the prison, stripped and waxen and full of something very like fear. He must have looked the same, he supposed, wrung through and afraid. Until the door had opened, and he had seen the assassin standing there, _really standing there_, breathing and whole and there for _him_.

"Zevran," he said, and turned into the assassin's arms. He fumbled with buckles and catches and yanked until the assassin's skin was bared beneath his hands. "Please?"

"I am here," the assassin said, and something in his low, hesitant tone made Darrian close his eyes. "My Warden. I am here."

He pushed until Zevran slumped backwards onto the bed. Beneath him, the enticing slide of the assassin's skin had him shuddering. He nipped at the assassin's throat, at the pulse that fluttered there, at the strong angle of his jaw above.

"Zevran, I," he said, and stopped.

"My Warden," Zevran murmured, and his fingers cupped Darrian's face. "I am with you."

Darrian nodded and hid his face against the side of Zevran's neck. The strange, coiling tension in him was heavy, and he knew that he would only spoil it with words if he spoke. So he kept silent, and kissed the assassin until their teeth clicked together awkwardly, until he tasted blood inside Zevran's mouth, inside his own mouth.

"Go to sleep," Zevran said, and rolled them both so that Darrian was on his side, the assassin tangled around him.

"I thought you wanted me exquisitely clean," Darrian protested.

"Later," Zevran said. He smiled, and his fingers combed through Darrian's hair. "Sleep first."

"Keep the candles lit?"

"Of course," Zevran answered. "For as long as you wish it."

* * *

><p>Darrian woke to the wonderful sensation of someone else's bare warmth wrapped around him. He stirred slightly, nestling himself closer into the crook of Zevran's shoulder. The sheets were cocooned around them both, and the assassin's rhythmic breaths brushed the side of his face.<p>

"How do you feel?" Zevran asked, his voice drowsy and idle.

"Better."

"Hungry?"

"Hungry and filthy."

"Well," Zevran said, and twisted so that he was half above Darrian. "We cannot have that, can we?"

He waited, hidden under the covers, while Zevran braved the corridor and found servants. While he listened to the maids' footsteps and their laughter as they filled the tub, he caught Zevran's hand and lay there, eyes closed.

"Scandalous, my Warden," the assassin murmured when the girls shut the door again.

"Yes, I'm sure the entire household will be shocked."

When Zevran coaxed him out of bed, he ate slowly, cheese and thinly sliced cold meat and fruit and bread still soft from the kitchens. The assassin genially complained when he avoided the mild white wine, so he rolled his eyes and downed half a glass too quickly. Zevran laughed at him and stole the glass.

"Get into the water," the assassin said, and lifted the wine pitcher again.

"Is that an order?"

"If you want my hands on you, it is."

Darrian grinned. "Just your hands?"

His first steps turned into an ungainly stumble. He closed the distance to the bath too quickly, and his hands bumped the side. "Zev, how long were we gone?"

"Too long."

"Two days?"

"Close to three. It was night again when we went for you."

He settled himself into the water, sinking beneath the surface until the heat of it swallowed him. When he emerged again, the heavy whorls of his hair plastered flat, Zevran touched his shoulder. The assassin washed him, rubbed soap into the creases on his palms and sluiced the suds out of his hair. With the same patient tenderness, the assassin guided him out of the tub and onto the rug again, his fingers warm against Darrian's wet skin.

"Now, my Warden," Zevran said, and he cupped Darrian's face between both hands. "I think I know what you need."

* * *

><p>"Circus performers," Darrian said, much later, when the candles were lower and they lay twined together. "You're making that up."<p>

"Not at all, my Warden." Zevran's fingers wandered across his chest. "Why else would I have been clad in such dazzling garb?"

"Fair point. But _Oghren?_"

"Oh, he asked to join me. We were briefly brothers, and such a bond forges great friendships," the assassin said, and his eyes sparkled. "Or somesuch."

Darrian rolled over, taking the assassin with him until Zevran was sprawled beneath him. "You're terrible."

"I know. It is why you put up with me, is it not?"

"No, it really isn't." He leaned down and captured Zevran's smiling mouth with his own. He threaded his hands through the golden hair and held the assassin's head in place. "There are other reasons I put up with you, though."

"Obviously." Zevran grinned. "Are you not tired, my Warden? Exhausted, perhaps? In need of rest?"

He ground his hips against the assassin's, and was pleased when Zevran groaned. "Later, Zev. We can sleep later."

"Oh?" Languidly, the assassin stretched, until his sweat-slicked skin slid against Darrian's. "So eager, are we?"

He trailed his hand past the sharp press of Zevran's hipbones. "Yes, _we_ are, apparently."

"Cruel Warden. Have I told you about the rather lissome lass I charmed today?"

He laughed. "No, you haven't. Was she suitably impressed?"

"Of course she was. She was offered the vision of both myself and Oghren, splendid in red silk. She was so overcome that she let us through a very important door."

"Poor girl," Darrian said, and stifled his laughter against Zevran's bare shoulder.

"Oh, hush now." Zevran shifted beneath him, so that his thighs opened around Darrian's waist. "Darrian?"

He stilled, and bowed his head against the assassin's neck. Those wonderful, lithe hands stroked down his back. "Zev?"

"I was worried for you."

"I know." He did know, and he had seen it in the assassin's eyes when the door had opened. "I'm alright."

"You were hurt."

"I know. I'm alright," he repeated, and he did not entirely believe himself. "I'm alright."

* * *

><p>Through the casement, Zevran watched the fading light of the afternoon. He was aware of Darrian's sleeping presence in the bed, and the dog's, curled up near the hearth. Once, the servants had returned with more wine, and words from Arl Eamon, words of relief that the young elven Warden was safe and hale, and would he consent to a meeting?<p>

_"Later," Zevran said. He threw the servant a dazzling smile and quite firmly shut the door again. "Much later." _

And now he sat cross-legged with his forehead against the chill of the windowpane and wondered just _what_ he thought he was doing. He had sliced and hacked his way through the guards at the prison with stupid, wild thoughtlessness, and for no sane reason other than to take himself back to his Warden as swiftly as possible.

He stared down at his upturned palms and at the tiny dot of gold nestled between them. The earring was beautiful, and he knew it was beautiful because he had kept it for its beauty. He wanted to see its beauty on his Warden, but whenever he thought about it, his nerve deserted him.

_He does not wear earrings,_ Zevran thought. _He does not wear gold. He has no reason for it._

Darrian did not wear rings on his hands or in his ears or anything that sparkled around his wrists or his throat. Only the pendant, the pendant that hung shadowed with darkspawn blood, the pendant that always seemed to be too cold when it slid against Zevran's bare skin at night.

He rolled the earring between his fingers again. Somewhere between the gates of Denerim and Fort Drakon, he had quite clearly gone mad. Some awful needling thought answered, that it had begun long before, maybe when he had helped clean black darkspawn blood off Darrian's shaking hands until they were clean and pale again.

"Zev?"

He turned, swinging his legs off the windowseat too quickly. He had not heard the Warden stir, and he masked his surprise with a brisk grin. "Still alive?"

"Mmm." Delightfully disheveled, Darrian leaned forward until the sheets sank to his waist. He rubbed the heel of one hand against his eyes and asked, "Have I missed anything important?"

"The arl wished to know if you were alright. I told him to send us his own bodyweight in solid gold as an apology for letting her Majesty remain under his roof, given her rather interesting behaviour."

Darrian laughed. "Really?"

"No. I sent his servants back with a message that you would speak to him later. I caused no chaos, I assure you."

Darrian swept his hair out of his eyes. "Are _you_ alright?"

"Yes. Of course I am. Why?"

"You just looked," Darrian began, and stopped. "Sorry. I didn't mean anything."

"No, it is alright." Zevran pushed up properly onto his feet. He grappled with himself a moment longer and blurted, "I have something for you."

"For me?" Darrian's face relaxed into a startled smile. "Really?"

"It's something I've had for a long time. Something I took after my first job for the Crows. A long time ago." His voice was running away with him, foolishly, and he could see the Warden's expression flickering. "I want you to have it."

"Zevran." Darrian's hands wreathed together on top of the covers. "Is this because of what happened at the prison? It was not your fault. It just _happened_. I told you to go because I thought it was the best thing to do."

"No, I know, I just…I want to give it to you. I mean…it is beautiful and I would like you to have it. It means a lot to me."

"You don't need to give me anything."

"No, but," he said. His heart was hammering, almost painfully, and he could not quite muster a smile. "I may not need to, but I want to."

Darrian's blue eyes lifted to his again. "What _is_ it?"

Zevran laughed. He closed the distance between them and let the golden earring slip into the Warden's hands. "What were you expecting?"

"Something rather bigger and possibly dangerous, given how worried you looked." Darrian's smile turned wicked, and he added, "And how do you expect me to wear it?"

"Ah, well. That is something I can help with."

He moved, and the Warden clasped his wrist. Darrian tugged gently and asked, "Are you sure?"

"If you want it," he heard himself say. "Then I am sure."

He turned properly, and felt the searching weight of the Warden's gaze on his back. Beneath his meticulously arranged belongings, he found the small leather pouch that held needles and thread and small, curved hooks. He chose a slender, gleaming needle and dipped it gently into the candleflame.

"Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Why now?"

He waited, watching as the needle cooled. "Because when you were in Fort Drakon, you were taken from me. There was nothing I could do. I…did not like that."

"No," Darrian said, and his voice was rough. "I know what you mean."

"Now." Zevran smiled. "Sit up for me, and let us see if I can do this properly."

"See? What do you mean, _see?_"

He laughed. "No faith, my Warden?"

"None. Will it hurt?"

"You will survive, I am certain. Turn your head. Yes," Zevran said, and cupped Darrian's chin. "Like that."

Carefully, he slid the needle through, and afterwards, the earring gleamed amid the tiny spot of blood. He ran his fingers through Darrian's hair, down to the white angles of his jaw, to where he could feel the slow, steady thump of his pulse.

"Zevran," the Warden said, and drew him onto the bed. His hands were unhurried and thorough, and Zevran shuddered beneath them, beneath the searching tenderness. His fingers hooked in Zevran's breeches, peeling them down over his hips. The Warden did not speak, and when Zevran opened his mouth to say something, to break the strange peace, Darrian's fingers slipped between his lips.

As silently, they surged together until Darrian rolled himself on top, and Zevran let him, pulled him close, close enough that they sank together. Loose black hair pooled against Zevran's shoulder when he buried his face against the side of Darrian's neck. The Warden's body rippled against his, and the coiling heat in Zevran's belly tightened.

He did speak then, the Warden's name spilling off his tongue.

Darrian's fingers twisted in his hair, guiding his head up. Darrian moved again, slowly and deliberately, until Zevran was sheathed deep inside him, and the assassin shook. He reached for Darrian, and his hand skimmed over hard muscle and past the jut of his hipbones. The Warden's forehead pressed against his, and he tilted his head until he was breathing into the Warden's mouth. Above him, the Warden twisted, and his hips snapped down, hard. The breath locked up in Zevran's throat, and in Darrian's arms he fell apart.

Darrian's mouth was on his then, soft and seeking, and he stayed there, beneath the Warden's sprawled weight. He did not trust his own voice, so he ran his hands over the Warden's shoulders. When the Warden shifted off him, he moved with him so that they lay tangled together, Zevran's face half-hidden against the Warden's neck.

Wordlessly, he fumbled through Darrian's black hair until he found the cold tip of the earring. He felt the trembling pressure of Darrian's mouth against his forehead, against his eyelids. Beneath him, the sheets were bunched and sticky, and he found that he did not care. Darrian's hands folded over the small of his back, and he fell asleep like that, his cheek turned against Darrian's chest.

* * *

><p>The evening brought rain in grey flurries against the window. Darrian lay on his side, Zevran curled around him, the assassin's face close enough that he could count flaxen eyelashes. Lazily, he kissed the assassin's forehead, the slant of his cheekbones.<p>

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

He hesitated, and wondered, horribly, if he was about to shatter the peaceful quiet between them. "I don't know what this is, anymore. It's more than I thought it would be." He gathered his courage, and finished, "It doesn't feel like a diversion anymore."

"No," Zevran said, softly. "It does not."

"Is it going to ruin everything if I ask what it does feel like?"

"I don't know," Zevran said, and lifted his head. "Because I do not know what this is."

Darrian swallowed. He leaned his forehead against the assassin's shoulder. It was easier, somehow – it was _always_ easier – to let the words come when he did not have to look into Zevran's eyes. When he could press his face against the warmth of the assassin's bare skin and listen to the thrum of his heart and the hitching way he breathed.

"Do you like it?" Darrian asked.

"Yes."

"I want it to be the same afterwards," he said, and startled himself when he leaned up and captured Zevran's mouth in a bruising kiss. "After it's over. I want it to be me and you and like this."

"Yes," Zevran said, and cradled Darrian's face between both hands. "_Yes_…I, just, yes."

"You're lost for words? I've never had _that_ effect on you before," Darrian told him and grinned. "We're terrible at this, aren't we?"

"_We?_ There are few things that I am terrible at, my Warden. Sewing in a perfectly straight line springs to mind, however."

Darrian spluttered into a laugh. "I'll remember that."

"Perhaps," Zevran said. "Perhaps we could become a little less terrible?"

"I'd like that." He traced Zevran's mouth with his fingers. "But do you know what we need to do right now?"

"Pin you to the bed until you scream my name, I hope."

He laughed again, easily and unguarded. "Later, I promise."

"Ah, duty, is it?" Zevran's grin turned evil. "An audience with his Grace, and her Majesty, too, perhaps? Am I allowed to be present?"

"You're required to be," he said, took advantage of the assassin's proximity for another lingering kiss. "Besides, I think she deserves to know exactly what we all think, don't you?"


	11. Forged

_A very big thank-you to everyone who's following this story. Reviews are always welcome. As always, Bioware owns almost everything. **  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Eleven – Forged**_

Sunlight slanted in through the high lancet windows in the arl's study. Alistair sat beside Darrian and stared down at his own hands. He swallowed, and he could still taste the sweet tea the maids had left. He risked another look across the brightly-dyed rug at the queen until he saw her fingers, porcelain and beautiful and clasped lightly.

"You are recovered, I hope?" the queen asked.

Alistair made himself look up properly. He met her gaze, lucid and level and piercing. She was _scrutinising_ him again, scrutinising him as she had since he had stepped into the study.

He wondered what she saw. He wondered if she saw Cailan's face in his face. _No_, he thought. He was dressed in a grey tunic and old breeches and needed at least three days of stubble mowed off, and there was _nothing_ regal about the way his head was bowed and his hands were linked. His ankles were tangled uncomfortably under the chair, and he was almost certain she could see the wild flutter of his pulse at his throat.

"Yes," Alistair answered, and managed a slight smile. "Now."

"Perhaps," Zevran said, from his perch next to Darrian. "Perhaps, your Majesty, the next time you intend an escape, perhaps you could _explain_ what it is you have in mind?"

"And should Cauthrien have thought me complicit?" The queen's smile was edged. "With Grey Wardens held responsible for the death of my husband and the failure at Ostagar, to have been seen so openly supportive would have been disastrous. Surely you understand the need for secrecy."

"Oh, yes," Darrian answered, slowly. "I'm just not sure where the need for secrecy becomes _allowing possible allies to be thrown into Fort Drakon_. What if we'd been executed?"

"You are too important, both of you," the queen responded. "You would have been kept alive."

"You know this, do you?" Darrian shrugged. "You hoped it, perhaps. I know _I_ hoped it. But then, I was there. In a cell."

"Warden," the arl said, gently. "There are other things that we need to discuss, I think."

"Yes," Darrian said, in the same vicious tone. "There are, aren't there? Given how quickly you threw us on Cauthrien's mercy, your Majesty, I have to wonder why you contacted us at all. What's to be gained?"

"My father," the queen explained, and her hands tightened. "He is…not entirely himself. He…the Blight grows, Wardens, and I know this. My father would sit in his palace and ignore it and let his nobles squabble over land and arms. I would not see Ferelden fall apart, and for that, I will need your help. And you will need mine."

"How?"

"You will need my voice in the Landsmeet. Without my support, you will be nothing more than Grey Wardens who killed a king."

Alistair stiffened. "You'd speak for us?"

"If you speak for me," the queen answered. She smiled again, almost thoughtfully. "My father must be forced to see that he has little support of his own. Howe is gone. My voice will stand with yours."

"What else?" Darrian demanded.

The silence pooled, impatient and prickling. To distract himself, Alistair straightened up in the chair and winced when his boot heels slid against the rug.

"The Alienage," the queen said, finally. Her head tilted, and the sunlight caught in the delicate, diamond-point pins woven through the golden wealth of her hair. "Forgive me," she added, and looked directly at Darrian. "Before I paid a visit to Arl Howe, I was made aware of…difficulties in the Alienage."

"Oh," Darrian said, and grinned venomously. "We know."

"Warden?"

"Slavers," he told her. "Slavers buying elves. Slavers buying elves at the behest of your father so that slavers' gold could go straight to the palace. Did you know that, your Majesty?"

"How is it that you know this?"

"My family lives in the Alienage," Darrian said, each word glacial. "They have for, well, since before I was born. I went to see them. Is that so strange?"

"You have evidence?"

"We gave the papers to Arl Eamon." He leaned forward. "You're welcome to see them, your Majesty. Your father's name is on them. Is there anything else you need to tell us, or is that it?"

The queen's mouth thinned. "Call the Landsmeet, and I will speak for you. _If_ I have your word of allegiance."

"Alright," Darrian said, and his voice stayed steady. "We will stand with you."

* * *

><p>In the small courtyard, the air was heavy with the fragrance that spilled from pale white flowers. Sitting cross-legged, Alistair dug his fingers through the twining green leaves. He watched as Darrian quartered the length of the courtyard again and again, his heels crunching against gravel. The dog followed him, his huge head nuzzling at the elf's hip as he prowled.<p>

"Feel any better?"

"No." Darrian stopped. He raised his hands, palm-up. "I'm still shaking all over. Was it obvious?"

"Not to me," Alistair answered. "But then, I kept staring at the floor. I did _not_ like the way she looked at me."

"We've fought worse things."

"Maybe, but those things never looked at me like I was something to be gotten rid of rather quickly. Well, actually, maybe of some of them _did_ look at me like that."

"You're babbling."

"I know." He rested his chin on crossed hands. "Just…Maker above, Darrian. What if she turns on us?"

"She's right, though. Without her voice we're just Wardens. Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

He groaned. "Oh, Maker. I hate it when you do that. Just _ask_."

"Would you challenge her for the throne?"

He froze. _No_, he thought. "I'd rather run away first. Besides, do you mean before or after she supports us at the Landsmeet?"

"After," Darrian said, faintly wry.

"Eamon wants me to."

"That's not what I asked."

Helplessly, he grappled for something useful to say, something to fill the stretching quiet. "Would _you_ do it?"

"I'm not you."

"I don't want to," he said, and the words spilled out in a shivering rush. "I _really_ don't want to. I want her to keep her nice little throne and just let us go about our business of killing the archdemon and saving everyone." He knew the rest, knew that Darrian's scowl meant he was thinking it through. Before the elf could speak, he said, "And _no_, I don't want to think about how letting her keep her throne might lead her to think a little too much about me as a threat."

"The more I think about this, the more my head hurts."

"You're not the only one."

Gracelessly, Darrian flopped down beside him. He sat as he usually did, cross-legged and frowning slightly beneath the black mop of his hair. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Captive victim. Audience. Whichever," Alistair said, and managed a crooked smile.

"Would you marry Anora?"

"What? _No_. I'd rather marry you."

Darrian grinned. "I'm flattered. Would it be that bad?"

"Unless you suddenly transformed into a woman, yes, it would be awful."

"I meant about Anora."

"Oh, her." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't want to marry her."

"Even for the peace of Ferelden?"

"Maker, you sound just like Eamon. If I _had_ to, I would."

"Alright."

"Don't look at me like that," he said, and turned away slightly. He did not want to see _that_ expression on Darrian's face, thoughtful and far too shrewd. "I want Loghain dead. _That_ is what I want."

Darrian fell silent, and Alistair could think of nothing else to say, nothing that would be helpful. His mind was a tangled whirl of too many thoughts, and he wondered again about the Landsmeet and how he would be seen, seen in front of all of them, and they would all look at him because his blood was Maric's.

A shadow slanted past the far columns, and he was almost grateful when Zevran's footfalls shattered the quiet.

The assassin paused, head tipped to one side. "What has happened now?"

"Nothing," Darrian answered. He grinned and added, "Alistair doesn't want to marry me because I'm the wrong shape."

"Oh, Maker above, how old are you again? Besides, we were talking about the queen."

"Ah." Zevran curled himself beside Darrian. Almost idly, he swept the other elf's black hair away from his collar. "The lady in question is beautiful and most calculating. I would not trust her to let a prospective bridegroom survive the wedding celebration, never mind the wedding night."

"Just because that's what _you_ would do," Darrian retorted.

"What any good Antivan would do," the assassin said merrily.

"You're terrible," Alistair said, and choked on a sudden, half-relieved laugh. "Both of you."

* * *

><p>Nightfall found Darrian at the windowseat, glaring out at the dark sweep of the arl's gardens. He tried to ignore the terse, impatient knot in his stomach. When the door opened behind him, he snapped out, "Did Arl Eamon tell you?"<p>

"Yes," Zevran answered. "It is to be tomorrow."

"And then we get to fail in front of every noble in Denerim."

"You're certain, are you?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before." He exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry. I'm not…I don't know what to do. I don't know what will happen, and I keep trying to think up ways around everything that could possibly go wrong."

"_Everything,_ my Warden? You've had enough time for that?"

He smiled, slightly. "Yes, very funny." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and added, "I just…I know what to do afterwards. Sort of. At least, I feel like I can at least pretend that killing darkspawn is _easier_."

"It is," Zevran said wryly. "Darkspawn do not plot. Like this, anyway."

"What should I do?"

"I do not know," the assassin said. "Some kind of peace needs to be found. Something that will let you kill as many darkspawn as you need to."

"You won't be helping me, then?" Darrian nudged him. "Sit down."

The assassin obeyed, sliding onto the windowseat so that he sat between Darrian's raised knees. "Of course I shall. I've become quite accustomed to washing darkspawn blood out of my clothes these past months."

He leaned forward until his chin rested against the assassin's shoulder. Slowly, he wound both arms around Zevran's waist. "What if it all goes wrong and we end up getting shouted down in the Landsmeet and escorted back out by soldiers?"

"Then we return to _my_ plan involving poison and a very sharp dagger for your Loghain."

He laughed. "You are predictable."

"Merely well-trained. Talk to me about something else."

"What?"

"My Warden, your thoughts are chasing you in circles. Let them go. You will not change what happens by thinking yourself exhausted."

He buried his face in Zevran's hair. "Sorry."

"Talk to me," Zevran said again. "You will have enough time to languish later when you can't sleep."

"Oh? For all you know, I'll sleep like the dead." He breathed in the scent of Zevran's hair and his skin beneath and the brushed, gleaming leathers he wore. "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me about the first man you seduced with that lovely mouth of yours."

He laughed. "It wasn't a seduction, I assure you. It was clumsy and awkward and I found out the hard way that being taken standing up against a wall is not necessarily comfortable."

"The hard way?" Zevran echoed, and chuckled. "I trust you tried it lying down to compare?"

"Quite a lot later, actually." He turned his head slightly, so that his cheek slid along Zevran's. He let one hand wander down the assassin's chest and heard the hitch in his breathing. He found buckles and straps and pulled. "You're wearing too much."

Zevran arched against him, all lean strength and approving smile. "Oh?" His parted lips met Darrian's, damp and teasing. "I am certain that between us we can think of _some_ way to overcome this."

* * *

><p>Alistair checked the edge of his sword again, and a third time, and snapped the blade into the scabbard. He had woken far too early, his skin coated with sweat and his heartbeat racing. Half a cup of water had settled uneasily in his stomach.<p>

_Loghain_, he thought, and swallowed.

How long had it been, he wondered. How long since he had stood amid the reeds outside Flemeth's small hut with his throat all locked up with grief and awful, unstringing fear. How long since he had _known_ that he would eventually look upon Loghain in the Landsmeet chamber.

So many months, he thought, and suddenly it was _today_.

_Under the rippling grey sky, he twisted and turned and moved through the steps of his morning sword drill. Each motion was practiced and elegant and he enjoyed the simple artistry of it, of disciplined footsteps in time with each other, and the way his sword dipped and cut the air. He added the shield next, and the weight of it hung against his arm and shoulder. He repeated the steps, as fast, until he felt the slide of sweat beneath his tunic. _

_ "Lazy on the last turn," Duncan said from somewhere behind him. _

_ Alistair grinned. He swung round, lowering the shield in the same movement. He sheathed his sword and blurted, "You're back?"_

_ "Yes, as the sun came up," Duncan answered. "You're alright?"_

_ "Well, the darkspawn haven't swarmed us yet. And we haven't killed the mages. And the mages haven't killed the king's guards. I'd say we're doing fairly well." _

_ One side of Duncan's mouth moved. "Now I'm rather glad I hurried back."_

_ Alistair smiled, a little ruefully. "Everything's alright. I think, anyway. Did you find another recruit?"_

_ "Yes." Something in Duncan's face softened. "He's likely on his way to meet you."_

_ "Anything I need to know?"_

_ "He's very tired, and hiding it badly. He's a long way from Denerim now, and we covered the distance very quickly."_

_ Alistair nodded slowly. "I'll look after him." _

A knock at the door startled him. "Yes?"

Wynne stepped over the threshold, a tray clasped between her hands. "I thought I would find you awake."

"Awake and _almost_ ready to start pacing."

She smiled. "I want you to drink this."

"Oh, Maker, _no_." He shook his head and flung himself back into the chair. "I could barely keep _water_ down when I woke up."

"Drink it," Wynne told him, and folded his hands around a steaming mug.

"You know," he said, and sipped until the hot liquid filled his mouth with the gentle taste of rosemary. "You know, if I can't say no to you, what hope is there for me today in front of everyone who matters in Denerim?"

"Alistair," she said, mildly remonstrating. "You will be strong because you have to be. Just as you were at Redcliffe, and at Haven, and when you went down into the Deep Roads."

"You know, you could be nice and just tell me it'll be really easy and over quickly."

"You wish me to lie to you, do you?"

He grinned over the rim of the mug. "Spoilsport."

"Do you have everything?"

"Yes. Sword, brain, and rather rattled nerves." He lifted the mug again. "Fort Drakon changed everything."

"Yes," Wynne said, softly. "You must rely on yourselves. No one else. The Blight is the true threat, and you both need to survive to face it. That is what matters."

"How about we try that thing where you lie to me now?" Alistair sighed. He shoved up to his feet and drained the cooling dregs of the tea. "Alright. I suppose I have to look presentable?"

He tugged the pieces of his armour on, Wynne's quick fingers helping with buckles and ties and clasps. He swung the shield across his back and waited until the familiar weight of it settled over the tension in his shoulders.

"Alright," he said again, quietly. "Let's get on with this before I convince myself that I really can get away with running away."

Downstairs, he discovered Darrian and Zevran in the small dining room, the Warden standing poised and rigid, and the assassin lounging on the end of a table. The dog huffed out a greeting, the broad side of his head rubbing insistently against Alistair's hands.

"Well," Alistair said. He looked at Darrian, at his neatly-laced leathers, at the way his hair was groomed away from his face. "You look tidy for once."

"You look regal for once," the elf shot back.

"Funny. Are you alright?"

"Not really. I don't…" Darrian shook his head. "Let's do this together, shall we?"

"Yes," Alistair said. Unsteadily, he clasped the elf's shoulder. "Together."

* * *

><p>The Landsmeet chamber was high and full of sunlight, and when Alistair tipped his head back, he could see the dust motes dancing overhead. But the tall stone arches threw shadows, dark thick slashes through the brightness. The chill clung to the air and the inside of Alistair's mouth when he tried to steady his breathing. He could hear Darrian's voice as he spoke, each word tremulous in the listening silence. He spoke of slavery and chained elves and elves dead in shackles and Alistair heard the soft rush of startled noise from the watching nobles.<p>

Alistair made himself look past the elf, to where Loghain stood. He had forgotten how tall the man was, how well his shoulders filled that grey armour. Loghain's dark, unflinching gaze shifted and fixed on him, and somehow, Alistair did not look away.

"The Alienage," Loghain said, every word hard and measured and clear. "What happened in the Alienage was unfortunate. But we are a country divided, and sometimes, sacrifices must be made."

"Just not yours," Darrian snarled back. "Then explain the blood mage."

"The blood mage."

"The blood mage sent to Redcliffe with orders to poison Arl Eamon."

Alistair remembered, remembered the pale, frightened young man they had found in the dungeons there. He had been a blood mage, he said, captured for his crimes at the Circle and sent to Teyrn Loghain.

_"I didn't want to." The young man turned, pallid hands twisting together. Ruined blue robes clung to his starvation-thin frame. "He told me I had to. He told me I had to do it."_

_ "Did he promise you anything?"_

_ "My life," the young man said, and he laughed, unevenly. "My life, and then he said he'd make it alright with the Circle. That maybe I could go back. That maybe everything would be alright again. I didn't…I couldn't do anything else except agree."_

_ "Did you trust him?" Wynne asked, very gently. _

_ "Why not? Why wouldn't I? I'd read about him. I knew about him." The young man smiled, bright and full of fear. "I knew it was him. I'd seen pictures of him in books."_

_ "What did he tell you to do, exactly?"_

_ "He said the arl needed to be killed. Slowly, and cleverly. And if I did that, I could go back, and it would all be alright again." _

_ Darrian nudged Alistair's shoulder, and he followed the elf outside, onto the wall. The wind swept across the lake, crisp and cold. _

_ "I don't," the elf said. "Is this…what does this even mean?"_

_ "He turned that mage into an assassin," Alistair snapped. "He knowingly let a _blood mage_ go."_

_ "Yes, but…" The elf raked shaking hands through his hair. "You think that mage was honest with us? Did you see how hungry he was? Alistair, when you're that hungry, you'll say damn near _anything_ to someone who might be able to give you some food." _

_ "You're questioning this? After Ostagar?" He could hear his own voice rising. "After everything that happened there?"_

_ "I met Loghain once. Once. And I was more concerned with whether or not I was going to survive my first darkspawn fight. I don't know what to do with any of this." _

_ "I'm sorry." Alistair sank back against the wall. "It's not you I'm angry with."_

_ "I know. You know what I think we should do?"_

_ "What?"_

_ "Give that mage a decent meal and some new clothes, let him get himself rested, and ask him again." _

_ "Lady Isolde won't like that."_

_ Darrian smiled crookedly. "I suggest we simply don't tell her, then."_

"These accusations are words," Loghain said, and his voice cut across Darrian's again. "Words that are empty, Warden. If you have nothing stronger with which to challenge me, I will ask you again. Where is my daughter?"

Darrian's gaze flicked to the opened door. His mouth was tight, and Alistair was close enough to see the stiff line of his shoulders. It was that coiled, deep tension that he knew meant the elf wanted to flee, or else abandon useless words and let his sword meet the threat instead.

_"Slow down," Alistair called again. _

_ Up ahead, the elf halted, his blue eyes wide and uncertain. His sword was streaked with darkspawn blood, running in thick lines down the blade. "The others."_

_ "I can see them," Alistair told him calmly. "Now straighten up and loosen your shoulders."_

_ "I'm fine."_

_ "You're too tense, and you've no room to absorb any impact. The next strike you take will either knock you off your feet or numb your arm and leave you too open." _

_ Grudgingly, the elf's shoulders lowered. "Better?"_

_ Alistair sheathed his sword. Very carefully, hands tilted palm-up, he guided the elf's arm down a little further. "You need room to move, and move quickly. Darkspawn have a nasty habit of leaping out of nowhere."_

_ "I thought you could sense them," the elf said, but his voice lacked any real venom. _

_ "I can. That doesn't mean you should be trying to get yourself walloped." He eyed the elf's stance for another critical, studying moment. "When we get back, I'm going to run you through sword drill."_

_ "Really?" The corners of the elf's mouth moved. "Do I get any choice in the matter at all?"_

_ "None," Alistair told him, and grinned. "None at all."_

_ He was almost surprised when the elf cornered him later. The afternoon sun swung between the high towers of the ruins and Darrian had one hand up against the glare. _

_ "Alright," he said. "I'm here."_

_ "I'll find us some practice swords."_

_ "Don't bother," the elf said, clipped. _

_ "If I lop your head off, however accidentally, Duncan will have my hide."_

_ "You're not _that_ good," the elf said, and smirked. _

_ Alistair laughed. The afternoon fled away and he proved the elf wrong, and even received an exhausted, genuine smile in acknowledgement. He pushed the elf across the open stretch of dry grass, again and again. Sweeping, punishing strokes designed to test and press back and tire out and tax reflexes. He spun, the flat of his sword driving against Darrian's arm. The elf leaped back, and stumbled, and Alistair's follow-up stroke sent him sprawling. _

_ "Are you alright?"_

_ "I'm alive," the elf said, and levered up on both elbows. "Oh. Sore." _

_ "Sorry," Alistair said. He pulled the elf upright. "Same again tomorrow?"_

_ The elf groaned. "Oh, alright then. Alistair?"_

_ "Yes?"_

_ "Thanks." _

Someone said something, loud and sharp and near enough that he almost jumped. The queen, he realised, her voice carrying through the stretching quiet.

"My father is no longer the Hero of River Dane," she said, and slowly, she turned away. Her pale, ringed hands wreathed together. "My father is no longer fit to stand in defense of Ferelden. We must stand with the Grey Wardens, and we must understand that the threat of the Blight is real, and must be met."

Loghain responded, and Alistair heard the rippling roar of sound as the nobles on the balcony above shouted. Loghain's hand slid to his sword hilt, and Alistair knew then, as simply and as clearly as breathing.

Loghain would not walk away, not from words, not from words spouted by his beautiful, treacherous daughter and an elven Grey Warden. Loghain _could not_ walk away, not when the Grey Wardens he had failed to kill had the audacity to stand in front of him.

"Have you a champion, then?" Loghain's gaze swung back to the elf. Relentlessly, he said, "Or would you dare face me yourself?"

Darrian went white. His mouth opened, and when he did not speak, Alistair caught his arm.

"Let me," he said, into Darrian's ear.

"No, I can't, you need to…"

"Let me do it," he said again.

Wordlessly, Darrian nodded. His blue eyes flickered, and when he stepped back, something inside Alistair eased. With a strange, aching kind of relief, he unsheathed his sword and lifted it in salute.

"Maric's son," Loghain said, almost thoughtfully. "Cailan's brother. You would test your mettle against me, then?"

"Draw your sword."

One graceful, fluid movement had the gleaming blade bared, and Loghain's hands tightened on the hilt. "As you would have it, Warden."

Alistair moved first, pushing off on one foot. The driving arc of his sword met Loghain's. He heard the scream of the steel and his own measured breathing and nothing else as he swung to block the man's follow-up stroke. Loghain's sword cracked hard against his shield, and he staggered.

The man was strong, very strong, and each blow was carefully timed. The blade lifted and fell and lifted again, and Alistair shoved back against it with hilt and shield. Loghain's wrists twisted, and the sword dipped and scribed a heavy arc through the air. Alistair whirled away from the dropping point and flung his whole weight behind his shield. The blade hammered against the shield until his shoulder twinged in protest. He backstepped, slowly surrendering space. He was used to the slide of damp earth beneath his feet, and the rain, in raw gusts against his face. The strange stillness of the chamber made his skin prickle, the odd awareness of _being watched_ as he lifted his sword again. Being watched, and not for his footwork or his balance or his speed, but for whether or not he would die first.

He spun again, and let his left arm take the brunt of Loghain's swing. He closed the gap with his sword and the blade slammed hard against Loghain's shoulder. The man stumbled, and Alistair pushed on. A heavy sweep of his shield sent the man back further, and when he swayed, Alistair lunged in low and snapped his sword against the side of the man's leg.

He did not fall. Even when Alistair ploughed into him shoulder-first, his shield striking against the man's breastplate, the man kept his feet.

_Slower_, Alistair thought. He needed to work through his steps slowly, and steadily, and keep himself going and wear the man down.

He settled his stance again and met Loghain's next onrushing charge. The solid thump of metal against his shield drove him back. Stroke for stroke, he met Loghain until the muscles in his shoulders and arms screamed. The hilt of Loghain's sword hammered into his side and the sudden pain of it shocked the breath from his lungs. He staggered away, and dragged his sword up too slowly. Loghain's blade slid against his, twisting until Alistair's wrist shook under the tension. He tried to pull himself away, tried to shove his shield into Loghain's shoulder again. He misjudged the distance, and the edge of his shield clanged harmlessly against Loghain's pauldron.

Alistair wrenched away. He had trapped himself, and stupidly easily. Desperately he shoved himself back, and when Loghain's sword sheared into his shield, he let it go. He let it fall, and the sound of it hitting the ground almost made him cringe.

_Too exposed_, he thought. _Too open, far too open. _

But he could not lunge for it, not now, not with Loghain filling the space between, not with how Loghain's sword was rising again. Frantic, he threw himself at Loghain, bringing his sword up in the same motion. He twisted, so that he was facing away, and wildly he struck out at Loghain's blade.

Two-handed, he pushed further, and further again, until Loghain's sword wavered. Teeth gritted, Alistair yanked himself away. When Loghain swayed, he spun and ignored the flare of pain across his shoulders. Close to frenzied, he caught Loghain's arm and whirled them both around. Wildly, he kicked out at the back of Loghain's legs. The man's weight sagged beneath him, and he held on, pushing until they were both on the floor.

He reached for Loghain's wrist, slammed it down again and again until the man's fingers slackened on the sword hilt. Through running sweat, Alistair saw Loghain's eyes roll, saw his mouth move.

Someone touched his arm, and violently, he flinched.

"Alistair," Darrian said, and his voice was sandy and strained. "It's alright."

_Not yet_, he thought. As silently, he guided Loghain upright, and when the man inclined his head, something inside him gave way. _Duncan_, he thought, and wrapped aching hands around his sword again and lifted it, lifted it until the blade sheared through Loghain's neck.

"Alistair," Darrian said again, and very gently, the elf caught his arm. "It's over. Sword down. Put the sword down."

He obeyed, and the dripping blade slipped from his fingers. He leaned into the welcome press of the elf's shoulder. "Yes."

"This," the queen said, and her voice was coldly steady. "This is murder, committed by the man who would claim to serve Ferelden."

Alistair's tongue dragged against his teeth. Behind his ribs, his heart was galloping, and the inside of his mouth tasted like old coins. "_Your father_ called for the right of trial by combat. The Landsmeet stands with us, and the Blight waits for us. Choose, your Majesty."

"Choose?" The queen regarded him through pale eyes. "You would murder my father and then force my hand, Warden?"

"If I have to," he said. The words fell hard and cold, and he tried not to look at the bright spill of Loghain's blood. "The Blight doesn't care if you support us or not. You can stand aside and let us push back the darkspawn, or you can do the same thing from the inside of a prison."

"I will surrender nothing. Neither my title nor my position."

Alistair's stomach knotted. This, he realised, _this_ was the choice, the choice he had avoided and shoved aside and pretended might fade away somewhere. Briefly, stupidly, he wondered if he could make it to the door if he bolted fast enough. But no, that would leave Darrian alone, and they were both Grey Wardens, and there were no others, and the Blight pressed too viciously close.

So he stood there, shaking beneath his armour, and heard his own voice as he claimed Cailan's blood and Cailan's crown for his own.

* * *

><p>The moon rose, and Alistair's head spun with the heat and Eamon's echoing words and the stifling press of <em>too many people<em>, all of them crowding around him, all of them smiling, all of them promising swords and men and support for the Wardens. Two cups of wine made his thoughts scatter uselessly. Eventually, he extricated himself from the arl, and silently, he made his way outside. Blessedly alone, he meandered through the cool shadows of the gardens. He found the small courtyard, the pale stone awash with the moonlight. He dragged his fingers down the spilling ivy until the leaves curled against his skin. For long moments he sat and thought of nothing, and then he thought of Loghain, and how the man had died silently. Silently and well, he supposed, falling amid the crimson spray of his death.

When he heard footsteps, deliberately loud against the ground, he was almost relieved. "No, I haven't run away."

"Just checking," Darrian answered lightly.

The elf hesitated, one hand hooked over his belt, the other clasped around the neck of a wine bottle. His face was slightly flushed, and when he finally sat, his shoulders were stiff.

"I'm sorry," Darrian said into the silence. "I didn't think…I don't know what I thought would happen."

"It's alright."

"Is it?"

"I don't know," Alistair replied, honestly. "I really don't know. But I do know that we need those soldiers and their swords. If…I don't know. Maybe we could have just thrown Anora in Fort Drakon and hoped they'd all support us anyway."

"She wouldn't have gone. Not easily, anyway."

"No, I know."

"Alistair?"

He dug his fingers through the twisting ivy again. "Yes?"

"Drink?"

He shrugged and accepted the bottle anyway. The wine was sweet and white and made his mouth prickle when he swallowed.

"I could've done it," Darrian said, and nudged him gently. "The fight, I mean."

"No, you couldn't. He'd've had you flat on your back in an instant and you know it."

"Arrogant human."

"Overconfident elf," Alistair managed, and tipped the bottle back again.

"Alistair?"

"Mmm?"

"You did well," Darrian said awkwardly. "And yes, I know how stupid that sounded. I just wanted you to know…that, well."

"I know," Alistair said. "You'd better be there when the archdemon comes flying in overhead, though. That's all I can say."

"Well, it's not like I'll have anything better to do." Darrian swiped the bottle from him. He gulped at the wine and added, "And I know you want to be alone. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Mostly alright." The elf stood then, and pressed the bottle back into Alistair's hands. "Is it actually going to do that?"

"What?"

"The archdemon. Fly in overhead."

"I have no idea. I've never seen one before. Not outside of dreams, anyway."

"You're no help," Darrian said mildly. Gently, he touched Alistair's shoulder. "Don't stay up too late."

He watched the elf's slim shoulders as he vanished back into the shadows. He lifted the bottle, and the wine flooded his mouth, sharp enough that he coughed. Two swallows later and his eyes were hot and blurring.

He waited until the stars turned overhead, and by the time he ventured back to his rooms, his heels were dragging against the floor and his head felt packed with wool. Clumsily, he kicked his boots off. Three more steps took him to the bed. He rolled himself under the sheets and closed his eyes and hoped that the pounding rush of the blood in his head might keep the dreams away.


	12. Duty

_As always, a huge thank you to absolutely everyone who's following or reviewing, or has this story on alerts or favourites. Thank you all so much. Bioware own most of it, and reviews are always welcome. **  
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_**Chapter Twelve – Duty**_

When the city was still dark, and the air was freighted with the scent of the sea, Darrian wound his way through the echoing, shadowed streets. He crossed under the glowing lanterns and through the gate into the Alienage. It was never quite silent, even so early, and he heard footsteps against wood and hurried voices. At his father's house he knocked gently. He waited until the door opened, and Soris beckoned him inside. At the windowsills, the tallow dips smoked, and he was suddenly too aware of the low beams.

"You look dreadful," Shianni told him archly from where she sat cross-legged by the hearth.

Mildly, his father hushed her, and asked if Darrian was hungry.

"No," he lied, and dropped onto the floor beside Shianni. Soris joined them, silently, and Darrian grappled for the right words. "We're leaving Denerim," he said, eventually. "Today. I don't know if…if you need to, can you get yourselves out of the city quickly?"

"Not happening, cousin," Shianni said. "Nowhere to go. You know that."

"Yes, I know."

"Darrian," his father said. "What is it that you know?"

"I'm not sure," he answered helplessly. "If everything goes right, you'll be fine here. The city will be fine. But if not, then, well, you'll need to get out."

"Just come back," his father said, his hands cupped over Darrian's. "We'll be waiting."

Darrian lifted his head and met his father's smile. "Thank you."

Outside, the first greyness of the dawn touched between the sloping roofs. Darrian wrapped one hand around Shianni's wrist and drew her away from the closed door. "I mean it," he said. "If something happens, you get Mother's weapons and you get Father out of there. And take Soris with you."

"You know I will," she said, fiercely. "Where's your friend?"

"My friend?"

"The very pretty blond one."

"Waiting for me, hopefully stark naked."

Shianni rolled her eyes. "I did _not_ need to hear that, cousin."

"You asked."

"I didn't ask _that_. Did you tell Cyrion?"

"What?"

"About your friend," she said, and swung her hip against his.

"Absolutely not."

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, small-boned and bright-haired in the pale dawn. He remembered the strange, echoing stone chambers in the mountains behind the tiny village, Haven, and he remembered the ghost there. The ghost that had looked like Shianni, the ghost that had worn her defiant eyes and challenging smile. The ghost that had dipped thin fingers through short, uneven coppery hair, _just the way she always did_.

"Stop looking at me like that," Shianni muttered. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "For the day I left. For what happened to you."

"Oh," she said. She swallowed, and grabbed at his hand. "Darrian."

"Yes?"

"Nothing. Just you." Her fingers tightened on his. "You're going to come back."

"Am I?"

"That's not funny." Sternly, she yanked him closer. "You're coming back and we're going to embarrass you by reminding you of how Adaia used to kick you out of bed really early and then beat you black and blue with practice swords."

"She wasn't that bad."

"No? I remember all the whining you did."

"Shianni?"

"What?"

"Be safe," he told her, and before he could think better of it, he pulled his cousin against him. She was tiny, he thought, all lean limbs and delicate shoulders, and he wondered if she had always felt so small.

"Your hair's getting too long," she said against the side of his neck.

"No, it isn't."

She lifted a handful of black hair away from his face. "I could braid it, if you want."

"No, thank you."

For a long moment he let himself stand there, leaning against his cousin, her head against his shoulder.

"Darrian?"

"Yes?"

"You have to go."

"Yes," he said, and winced when she raked her hand through his hair again. "Get _off_ me, you awful creature."

"You miss me when I'm not around."

"I'm not admitting to anything," he said, and somehow, he stepped away from her, and away from the soft lamplight. When his heels struck the damp ground, he did not turn, because he did not want to see her watching him, watching him as he left.

"Shianni," he called, and did not look over his shoulder.

"What?"

"Stop moping and make yourself useful."

"I am not moping, you bastard. Darrian?"

He did not stop. "What?"

"Be careful."

"I will," he answered, and he swallowed until the thickness in his throat vanished, quickening his pace until his mouth was full of the sea-salt air.

* * *

><p>Under the early sun, Darrian wrestled with his horse's reins. On both sides, the arl's guards gleamed, resplendent in polished armour and their horses' hooves striking impeccable time. Pennants snapped and snagged against the blue curve of the sky, and he was aware of far too many people, marching or riding, and wagons rumbling along behind, and voices, lifting above the jangle of mail and weapons.<p>

For too much of the morning, Alistair rode beside the arl and his brother, and only once did Darrian manage to steal the other Warden away from Eamon's attentions. The afternoon proved worse, and by the time the last halt of the day was called, he saw how Alistair's face was furrowed and tight with something very like anger. Much later, in his tent, he lay twined around Zevran and wondered about Shianni, and his father, and Soris, and tried desperately to push aside the ugly, twisting knot of tension that had lodged in his chest.

The next days on the road were the same, full of too many people and pitched camps that seemed to stretch too far beneath the coppery sweep of the sunset. Emissaries darted past the wind-thrummed tent ropes, bearing messages for the arl and the king, and sometimes, Darrian heard their reports. Orzammar's legions would meet them at Redcliffe, he learned, and there were Dalish elves on their way from their sprawling forests. First Enchanter Irving had not forgotten his promise, and more than once, Arl Eamon called meetings around fluttering fires and spoke of his gratitude.

Three evenings later, under drizzle and sliding, clammy mist, Darrian meandered casually between the tents. He discovered Alistair where he hoped, sword in hand and working himself into sweating exhaustion behind the biggest firepit.

"Stop, now," Darrian said, and caught the man's free arm. "Yes, now, and yes, that's an order. My liege."

Alistair laughed, uneven and tired. "Not for another speech."

"How about for a drink?"

"You're an awful influence."

"Then _we_ can drink, and you can watch us. Come on."

Alistair gave in, and Darrian led him to the small tent. Zevran and Oghren were already there, as he had hoped, a brandy bottle open between them, and a single lantern still lit.

"So," Oghren said, and hooked up the bottle. "Where's this big monster of yours? Going to eat us all tonight?"

Alistair grimaced. "I _was_ going to have a drink until you said that."

"Wouldn't you rather be tipsy if we all get slaughtered?" Darrian asked.

"Yes, I'm sure that will make certain death and destruction all the more fun." Alistair sighed. "I just can't help but think we're doing something wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Every day we go out with the scouts, and what do we find? Tiny groups of darkspawn who look rather surprised to see us."

"There were _swathes_ of the bastards near the city," Oghren remarked.

"That was days ago." Alistair scrubbed at his hair. "I don't know."

Darrian snatched the bottle from the dwarf. He tipped it up, and the fierce burn of the brandy made him cough. Oghren laughed, and Darrian glared and retorted, "I just drank it too fast."

"_Sure_ you did."

As childishly, Darrian responded, and by the time everything collapsed into trading insults, he noticed that Alistair's shoulders had loosened a little, that he was smiling slightly as he listened. Eventually, Oghren polished off the dregs of the brandy and stamped out into the blustery cold of the night.

Alistair pushed up to his knees and said, "I should go as well. Darrian?"

"Yes?"

"If this all goes wrong," he said, and shrugged.

Darrian looked up at him and saw the shadows in his face. "I'll still be here."

* * *

><p><em>It would fall, it would all fall, stone and towers and trees and walls and winding woods. It would all fall in flame, and the song would rise up, and he would scream his pleasure for it. The darkness would come up out of the earth. <em>

He woke shaking, heat and cold racing in turn across his skin. He kicked the covers aside. He twisted, and Zevran's arms wrapped around him.

"No," Zevran murmured. "Stay. I have you."

He gulped down another breath. He pressed his face into the crook of the assassin's shoulder. "Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"Don't go anywhere."

"No," the assassin said. One of his hands cradled the back of Darrian's head. The other massaged small circles just above his hip. "I am here. What did you dream?"

"Darkness. The archdemon above it all. Me, wanting it."

"Wanting it?"

"The end," he said. "Wanting it to be over."

"_No_," Zevran said, sharply.

"No, what?"

"You do _not_ want that."

"No?"

This time, Zevran stayed silent. His hands ran up and down Darrian's back, smoothing away the tension locked deep inside his muscles. Between them, the glass pendant was icy.

"I think it's above the ground somewhere." He bowed his head against Zevran's neck. "If it can sense us and I think it _can_ sense us then it can find us. It could rip through every man out there before we'd even know and it could have a whole horde of darkspawn behind it and it _will_ because that's how it does things."

"My Warden," Zevran murmured. "You are talking too quickly. Breathe."

"Sorry." He dipped his tongue into the hollow of Zevran's throat and listened to the assassin's appreciative sigh. Beneath his lips, the assassin's pulse quickened, and for a long, wrenching moment, he wanted to do nothing more than sink into Zevran's arms and forget.

"Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Stay here," he said, and rolled over. The chill bite of the air made him gasp, and he reached clumsily for his shirt.

"And where will you be?"

"I need to," he said, and stopped. "I don't know. I need to walk around."

Zevran's hand slipped along his cheek. "Do not be gone long."

Outside, the night was not half over, brittle and cold and full of keening wind. Head down, cape wrapped around his stiff shoulders, Darrian walked between the tents. Some of the guards nodded to him, and one asked if he was alright. Almost startled, he paused, and managed a neutral reply about the weather waking him. He crossed between the last lines of the torches, tugged flat and guttering.

The trees rose up around him. The branches were filled with the crackling roar of the wind. He stopped by the twisting trunk of what he thought was an ash tree. He touched the gnarled grey bark with both hands and tried to banish the incessant, needling worry. In the dreams there was only the aching, painful need for the song, and the rising of it, and he no longer knew if he dreamed it because he was afraid or because the darkspawn were gathering.

_Both_, he thought, and almost smiled.

"And whatever are you looking for out here, Warden?" Morrigan asked, her voice low and measured and far too close.

His fingers clenched against the bark. Slowly, he turned, and looked at the witch where she stood, pale and beautiful beneath the arch of the branches. "Couldn't sleep."

"No? This is a pedestrian reason for the leaving the arms of your assassin lover, don't you think?"

He leaned back against the tree. "Perhaps. Sometimes I simply prefer being outside."

"Ah." Her head tilted to one side. "That I understand. You are troubled."

"I…yes," he said eventually. "I keep thinking that it doesn't matter what I do, something will go wrong, and I won't be able to stop it."

"You are a hero, aren't you?" she said. "You have done great things."

He looked at her properly, at the challenging curve of her mouth, at the walls that were there in her strange yellow eyes, the walls that were always there. He remembered how she had stepped out of the Wilds, moving with all the unsettling grace of a predator.

"_Does your elven mind give you a different viewpoint?"_

"_All it gives me is pointed ears," he snapped before he could think better of it. He tightened his grip on his sword and studied her. "Who are you?"_

"_My name is Morrigan." _

The witch and her mother who had saved them, lifted them somehow from the tower while in the valley behind, the Grey Wardens died. He remembered the Brecilian Forest and how she had slipped between the trees until the mist swallowed her.

_He ducked under the low sweep of the bough. Trailing leaves dragged against his cheek, damp and cool. He pushed on past another tangle of ferns and swore out loud when his heel slid against the ground. _

"_You are too loud when you walk," Morrigan told him flatly. _

_He looked up and to the side and finally saw her where she stood poised beside the silvery aspens. "Sorry," he muttered. _

"_A forest is layers of sound, Warden, and we must walk between them." Her mouth sloped up in slight smile. "Or at least not stampede through them."_

"_Point taken."_

"_What are your thoughts?"_

"_About what?"_

"_Zathrian," she said, and her smile widened. She fanned one hand out against the pale bark. "Do you see the secrets in him?"_

"_He's hiding something," Darrian conceded. "I don't know what. I'm not sure I want to know what."_

"_But you will help him regardless?" Her mouth twisted. "You are foolish, you and your fellow Warden."_

"_Because I want to talk _before_ deciding Zathrian deserves to die? Sometimes it's complicated. Sometimes you need to talk first." _

"_Yes," she said, in the same cutting tone. "You talked to the qunari, and talked to the bard, and talked to the assassin."_

"_And because of that," he snapped, and heard his own voice rising. "Because of that, we're still alive, and not quite as alone as we were." He spun and breathed in until his chest was full of the wet scent of the trees. "I'm sorry."_

"_Oh, no," Morrigan said, and studied him a moment longer. "Do not apologise. You apologise too much, Warden." _

"Great things," Darrian echoed, and without thinking, he laughed. "Yes."

"Your fellow Warden stands as king before his people."

"You know," he said, wearily. "I can never tell when you're serious."

"That is hardly _my_ fault."

"No." He pressed his palm against the pendant, cold and heavy inside his shirt. "What should I have done?"

"Why ask? It is done now, and I am certain that everyone else has told you their thoughts. Or will tell you. What _I_ would have done means nothing."

"Do you _know_ how often you answer questions with questions?"

"Yes," Morrigan said. "As often as you stay silent."

The branches rattled above. "You'll stand with us at Redcliffe?"

"Have I failed you yet, Warden? Have I held my spells and my magic aside and let you walk into harm?"

"No, I…" He turned into the press of the wind and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. And I'm tired, so I'm going to sleep."

He walked until the trees fell away behind him, and the wind was thrumming in his ears. More than once, he looked up at the starless, cloud-banked sky above, and wondered just what it was he hoped to see. Quickly, almost stumbling over his own feet, he dived back through the tent flaps and under the warmth of the blankets.

"Your elbow is in my stomach," Zevran mumbled. "And take your boots off."

"Sorry." He unsnapped the buckles and worked his boots off with cramping hands. "Very cold out there." He burrowed against the delicious heat of Zevran's bare chest until the assassin hissed.

"You are like _ice_. Get away from me. Or at least go wrap yourself around your dog."

"No," he muttered, and buried his face in the crook of the assassin's shoulder. He tugged the covers over them both and held on until some of Zevran's warmth seeped into him.

Gently, Zevran's hands cupped over his shoulders. "Better?"

"Mmm," he managed, indistinctly. "Much. Zev?"

"Yes, my Warden?"

"Stay like this?"

Zevran's fingers threaded over the nape of his neck. "Move your horribly cold feet off mine, and I am in complete agreement."

Darrian spluttered out a laugh against the assassin's collarbone. He obeyed, shifting until his legs and his feet were between Zevran's. He lay like that for a long time, his mouth half open against the assassin's skin, breathing in the scent of him until sleep claimed him.

* * *

><p>Redcliffe Castle stood stark and still against the pewter sky. The quietness cloaked the lake and the dip of the road and the low, leaning roofs of the village. Walking beside Darrian, flanked on both sides by the arl's guards, Zevran found himself fiercely wanting space and silence of his own.<p>

Silence enough to discover the reason for this strange, brittle stillness.

In the small houses near the lakeshore, the scouts found only the dead, most of them days old, their throats gaping and shriveled. He waited beside Darrian, and saw the locked desperation in his Warden, in the stiff set of his shoulders, in the way he said _nothing_, not even when Alistair nudged him, not even when the huge mabari lumbered up and nuzzled his arm.

The path up to the castle bridge proved worse, littered with the fallen, and on both sides, the darkspawn rose up. Zevran heard Alistair's shout to be careful, and beside him, Darrian went rigid all over. He supposed they could _feel_ them, feel something in the darkspawn, in the way they raced over the uneven ground, in the way their teeth snapped and their eyes flared.

Before he could spin and slice his way through the darkspawn, the witch called a towering column of flame. The heat washed past him, close enough to make him hiss. Some other spell followed, something that made the air ring like rubbed glass.

Briskly and methodically, the Wardens led the guards through the village, house by house and place by place, and Zevran followed them. Sometimes he stood beside Darrian, and let his hand play over the Warden's slender wrist, or else he brushed the Warden's narrow shoulder. Other times he ghosted on ahead of the Warden, and took his blades to a darkspawn's throat or chest, or else scythed his way through them.

The afternoon waned, and Alistair ordered a runner sent back to Arl Eamon. Zevran trailed his way through the scouts until he could see the grey lakeshore, and Darrian, facing away and with one hand clamped hard over his sword hilt.

"Something _has_ gone wrong," the Warden snarled, before Zevran was within six paces of him. "We've made a mistake."

"Go on," he said, his tone neutral.

"You saw them, Zevran. We chopped through them, how easily? This was a trap. No. A diversion. _Something_. It just feels wrong."

"And this cannot be changed now," he said. "Come."

"Oh, yes. Drop everything and run up to the castle. Go and wait on Arl Eamon. Then what happens?"

"I do not know," he answered evenly. Part of him wanted to gather the Warden into his arms, hold him until the tension in him gave way. But the Warden was marble-pale and his face was all pinched and if he did not want to be touched, out here beside the lake, then Zevran would not touch him.

"That's not helpful, Zevran."

"No. I suppose it is not." Almost idly, he scuffed one heel against the ground. "I was thinking perhaps that you might let me distract you."

"How?"

"Need you ask?"

Darrian's shoulders sagged. "Is that _all_ you think about?"

"Sometimes."

"Later," the Warden said, and he caught Zevran's shoulder roughly. "Later. I promise."

* * *

><p>Against the walls of the big courtyard, the darkspawn lay dead. Their faces were turned up to the sky, and Darrian stood and looked down at them. The stone beneath his feet was pooled with their blood and the sharp scent of it filled his mouth and his nose. He was vaguely aware that he was aching beneath his leathers, that his shoulder was leaking blood and that the outside of his right leg throbbed from a bad fall.<p>

"Warden?"

Someone touched his shoulder and he whirled. He stared into the pale, exhausted face of a soldier and bit back his instinctive, angry response. "Yes, what is it?"

"We've cleared through the main hall inside, Warden. You wanted to know."

"Yes." Awkwardly, he nodded. "I'm sorry. What's it like inside?"

"Small groups of darkspawn," the man told him. "We've got scouts moving through to the upper floors."

"Not by themselves. I'll come," he said. He rolled his shoulders and winced. "Send a message to his Majesty to wait outside until we're done."

It took too long, he thought later, much too long, working through each room and down each corridor until he was convinced the castle was empty of them. Downstairs, he knew soldiers were dragging them carefully outside, out of a couple of the storerooms, out of one of the cellars. Upstairs they had found nothing, and some part of him was painfully, wearily grateful.

_Nothing left to kill_, he thought.

By the time the stars rose and the wind off the lake turned icy, torches fluttered all along the castle walls. In the dining room, Darrian heaped a plate with cold meat and bread and pilfered a pitcher of wine. He noticed Alistair, head bent as he talked with the other Warden, the tall, dark-haired man. Another quick look showed him Arl Eamon's attention fixed on Bann Teagan. Darrian turned. He jerked his head at Zevran and made for the door as quickly as he dared. Wordlessly, he led the assassin up the twisting stairs and into the opulent set of chambers the arl had offered.

Firelight met him, and candles, and the heavy warmth of closed curtains and deep rugs. He eased the door shut and joined Zevran beside the hearth. He ate silently, half-listening as the assassin told him some mild, silly tale that involved falling through a window and into an intended target's arms. He finished half of the bread and when he looked up, he found Zevran studying him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Zevran smiled, lopsidedly. "You are barely here."

Guiltily, he glanced back down at the plate. "I'm sorry."

"No," Zevran said. "Do not be sorry. Finish eating."

He nodded, and slowly, he made himself swallow down the rest of the bread and most of the meat. He stared at the twining flames until the heat made his face flush and loosened some of the tightness in his shoulders.

Zevran took his hand and drew him to his feet. "Come with me."

He let the assassin lead him across the rug, but when he turned to collapse onto the bed, Zevran caught his wrist. "Not yet."

Maddeningly graceful, the assassin unfastened his leathers, his fingers quick on ties and clasps. He sank to his knees and tugged Darrian's boots off next, and his hands slid teasingly down the inside of the Warden's calves. Darrian reached out and threaded his hands through Zevran's hair, heavy golden strands spilling through his fingers.

Zevran uncoiled back up to his feet. He framed Darrian's hand between both of his and kissed his fingertips in turn.

"Zevran," the Warden said, thickly.

"Ssh," the assassin murmured, and kissed him, long and slow and pliant. The assassin found the hem of his shirt, drew it up and over his shoulders. With the same unhurried patience, Zevran's hands skimmed over Darrian's chest and down to his hips.

"Turn around," Zevran said.

"Oh? What are you going to do to me?"

"Something you'll like."

"Oh?" He grinned and nipped at Zevran's jaw. "Like what?"

"If I tell you, I'll spoil it," the assassin said. His hands tightened on Darrian's hips. "Turn around."

"You're lucky I take orders well." He threw another smile over his shoulder and complied, shifting around until his knees were against the side of the bed. "Like that?"

"Yes." Zevran's fingers ran across the back of his thighs. "Just like that."

Slowly, Zevran kissed his shoulders, and the scars that ran down his back and looped around beneath his ribs. Rhythmic and soft, the assassin explored him, the tips of his fingers tracing Darrian's shoulderblades and his spine and the messy fall of the hair at his nape.

"Mmm," Zevran murmured, and pressed his lips against loose black hair. "You are rather lovely to look at."

"Oh?" He felt the warmth of Zevran's mouth again, against his shoulder and his side. "Just rather?"

"Arrogant Warden."

Taking his time, Zevran settled himself behind Darrian so that they were cleaved together. His hands ran up and down Darrian's chest, dipping teasingly below his belt until he groaned.

"Zev. That's not fair."

"No, it's not." As deliberately, the assassin turned his attention to the inside of Darrian's thighs, and the warm skin just inside his waistband. "Not at all. Kneel."

Silently, Darrian obeyed. He closed his eyes, his forehead pressing against the bed covers. His hands sank loosely against the sheets. Zevran unbuckled Darrian's belt, and his fingers lingered there for a tantalizing moment.

"You're very hard, my Warden. Whatever are you thinking about?"

"You," Darrian said, and the word ran off his tongue heavy and rough.

He felt Zevran smile against his shoulder. The assassin traced down his back with lips and tongue and teeth until Darrian trembled. When his breeches were worked down and away from his hips, he groaned. With tortuous deliberation, Zevran held him in place and used oil-slicked fingers and the teasing warmth of his mouth until Darrian was rocking back against him.

"Zev," he grated. "You're _evil_."

"Oh, yes," Zevran answered merrily.

"You're trying to make me beg, are you?"

"Only if you want to."

Zevran's hands caught against his hips again, and slowly the assassin thrust into him. The heat and the delicious stretching pressure of it made him hiss and twist. His pace stayed steady and patient, and Darrian bucked desperately against him.

"Let go," Zevran murmured into his ear. "My Warden. Let go."

He shivered and dug his hands into the sheets. His eyes were closed, and he was aware of the assassin's weight against him, the assassin's mouth against the side of his neck. "Zevran," he managed. "I don't…"

"Let go," Zevran said again, very gently.

The assassin's hips rolled, driving him deeper, and Darrian shuddered. He was sweating, and he could feel the slide of Zevran's chest against his back. He could taste the damp ends of his own hair, tickling the corners of his mouth. Zevran's hand slipped beneath him, and he surrendered.

He tried to say something, anything, but all it took was the sudden, hot pressure of the assassin's fingers on him, and he was arching back against the assassin, his whole body seizing with the aching pleasure of it. He gasped out Zevran's name and held on when Zevran's hips snapped hard and the assassin fell into his own climax.

Somehow, slowly, he uncurled his hands from their locked grip on the sheets. The assassin was sprawled across his back, heavy and warm and wonderful. Clumsily, Zevran kissed his shoulder.

"Will you die or stop breathing if I don't move right away?"

"No. I think you killed me already."

"Oh." Zevran's head lolled against his shoulder. "Good. I'll stay here then."

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"My knees hurt."

"Oh, always complaining, my Warden."

Very gently, Zevran eased away. He pulled Darrian's breeches off properly, shoved them aside. Awkwardly, Darrian tipped himself over. He looked at the assassin, half-dressed and sweating, his golden hair loose against his face.

"Zev?"

"Yes?'

He smiled, almost nervously. "That was good."

"Only _good?_" Zevran grinned. "I'm shocked."

"Clothes off and come here."

Past half-lowered eyelids, Darrian watched as the assassin laughed and stripped off the rest of his clothes. He scooped Darrian against him and rolled them both beneath the sheets.

"Zev," Darrian said, and stifled a yawn against the assassin's shoulder.

"Go to sleep," Zevran told him.

He wriggled until he could nestle his face against the side of Zevran's neck, until he could slide one leg between both of Zevran's. "You'll stay?" he asked, and heard the frayed note in his own voice.

Zevran's lips brushed his temple and his forehead. "I will stay."

He mumbled something, maybe Zevran's name, but the weariness rose up again and he fell into dark dreams that rippled with the archdemon's song.

* * *

><p>Darrian woke to bright sunlight and Zevran's knee pressed far too hard against the inside of his thigh. He shifted slightly, lifting the assassin's leg aside. Carefully, he raised his head and looked at Zevran's face, eyes closed and mouth slightly slack, and the swirl of his tattoo arrestingly dark.<p>

"I _am_ awake," the assassin murmured, without opening his eyes.

"Of course you were."

Zevran's lips curved up into a drowsy smile. "You can't do anything quietly, my Warden."

"No?" Darrian grinned. He let one hand roam down the hard muscle of the assassin's side, past his hip.

Zevran hissed between his teeth. "Cruel Warden. Revenge?"

"Yes," Darrian told him, and threaded one hand through loose golden hair. "Mainly because I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to _walk_ today."

Zevran laughed. "I am all yours, my Warden."

Darrian hesitated, one hand splayed over the assassin's belly and the other cupped teasingly between his thighs. Something clenched somewhere in his chest, something aching and tender. "Yes, I know," he said, and he kissed the assassin, all teeth and clumsy lips. "Now lie back."

He had one hand wrapped around Zevran's rigid length and his mouth pressed against Zevran's hip when the knock sounded at the door. He growled and pressed his forehead against the assassin's leg and muttered, "Stay quiet and maybe they'll go away."

Zevran's fingers played through his hair. "I am not convinced, my Warden."

He swore again and grasped blindly for his breeches. Chill air washed over him as he wrestled them on. He yanked the door open and stared into Alistair's drawn, exhausted face.

"We have to stop doing this," Darrian said, deliberately sardonic. "Some day you're going to see something you _really_ don't want to see."

"Yes, I know," Alistair said.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, and scraped a hand through his hair.

"Come in."

When the man just stood there, Darrian motioned him across the threshold. He closed the door behind Alistair and drew in a slow breath. "What's wrong?" he asked again.

"Riordan wants to see us."

"Oh?"

Alistair shrugged. "I don't know what about. But it was serious enough that he nearly kicked in my door this morning and demanded that we fetch you."

"Alright, but you're going to have to turn round because I'm fairly certain Zev isn't wearing anything at all under that sheet and I'm assuming we'll need to be dressed for this."

Alistair's boots shifted against the floor. "Just you."

Darrian swallowed. "What?"

"That's what Riordan said. Just you. Just the three of us. Wardens."


	13. Threads

__As always, an absolutely huge thank-you goes to everyone who's following this story. Reviews are always welcome. _**  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Thirteen – Threads **_

The sunlight spilled through the high narrow windows, white and blistering across the scrolled edges of candleframes. Darrian stood with both hands braced on the mantelpiece, his fingers clamped hard against the stone and too aware of how his shoulders were trembling.

He did not want to turn around.

He did not want to turn around and see Alistair's face where he sat in the windowseat. He knew that the man was going to speak in any case, since he always did when the silence pooled too thick and too cold.

"_I am sorry that neither of you knew this. Normally you would have been told. But with the disaster at Ostagar, there has been no opportunity."_

He knew the stories. He had _known_ the stories, of how Grey Wardens were the ones who defeated Blights. _Always_ Grey Wardens, and why had he never wondered _why?_ Even now, now that he wore trapped darkspawn blood in glass against his skin, why he had he never _questioned?_

_There had been too much else to do_, he thought. Too much else to do and discover and find, and treaties to see signed, and little time enough to wonder if he would ever survive to _see_ an archdemon, much less kill one.

"_A darkspawn is an empty, soulless vessel. A Grey Warden is not."_

But Grey Wardens were changed by the darkspawn blood, and he was changed, and he wrapped one shaking hand around the pendant. It pressed into his skin, icy and smooth.

_He stared at Riordan, certain he had heard wrong. He _had_ to have heard wrong. He swallowed, and tried to think of something to say. _

"_So," Alistair said, unevenly and very quietly. "You're saying…I just want to get this clear. Whichever one of us kills the archdemon…dies. Yes?"_

He had almost wanted to laugh, hearing Alistair's studious, concerned tone. He almost wanted to laugh again now, with sweat dappling the back of his neck and slicking his lips and turning the pads of his fingers slippery and cold.

_Zevran_, he thought, and his throat thickened.

"Please turn around," Alistair said. "Every time I look up all I can see is the back of your head and I can't tell what you're thinking."

Darrian gritted his teeth and shoved himself away from the mantelpiece. He did not know what to do with his hands so he shoved them through his belt. "Sorry."

Alistair shrugged. "Just when I thought it _might_ be slightly easy."

"Did you ever really think that?"

"No."

Darrian tapped his sword pommel, then wrapped a hand around the hilt, then gave up again and paced. "We're going to die."

"Oh, well, I was going to try and be optimistic, but if you want to be like _that_ about it," Alistair mumbled, half-heartedly.

"Like what? We're going to die and the archdemon's taking its friends back to Denerim. Where we're _not, _which means the city is likely to fall before we get there anyway."

"Yes, I know, I was in here too, remember?" Alistair snarled. "Oh, Maker. I'm sorry."

Darrian swallowed his instinctive, vicious response. "You really didn't know either."

"No."

"It's going to be me," Darrian said, almost mildly.

"What?"

"You're the king. You're going to be staying far, far away from archdemons, flying or otherwise. If it's just Riordan and me left, and an entire city we've got to get through to get to our archdemon, what do you think the chances are of me actually living through it?"

"Have you _finished?_" Alistair snapped.

Darrian froze. Part of him wanted to lash out, scream back at the man that he never asked for this, not once_,_ that he had never asked Duncan to be in Denerim that day. "Yes," he whispered. "I've finished."

"Then sit down. Please sit down."

Numbly, he curled onto the windowseat beside the man. He tried to think of something else to say and failed. The words would not come, and his throat felt sandy and swollen.

"We'll go after it together," Alistair said. "All three of us."

Darrian nodded.

"Three of us," Alistair said, and the words tripped over each other. "You and me and Riordan. We might do it."

"Yes."

"We could do it. If we work together. Everything falls over if you hit it hard enough, yes?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell Zevran?"

Darrian said nothing. He thought of the assassin and something in his chest tightened painfully.

"You have to tell him," Alistair said. "Darrian, you can't _not_ tell him."

"It's Grey Warden business."

"But you're…"

"I know," Darrian said, and ached.

"Wouldn't you want to know, if it was you?"

"No, I," he said, and stopped.

Alistair reached for him, and he whirled away. His hands clenched, and he snapped, "_Don't_."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, helplessly.

"So am I." He breathed in deeply, tried to ease the rigid tension in his shoulders. "I need…I need to go."

* * *

><p>The morning unraveled away towards noon, and Darrian checked the stables and the wagons in the courtyard and read supply lists until his eyes smarted. There were still Dalish fighters coming in from the countryside, he understood, so he ordered an extra scout patrol out to meet them. He stopped by the forge and the marked-out square that served as a training field in the big courtyard. There, he watched half-smiling as Oghren and Sten sparred across the cobbles with the arl's men.<p>

He made his way out through the gates and tried to ignore the hollow, twisting knot that had lodged deep inside him. He should be back inside, he knew. He should be back inside and buried in Zevran's arms and telling the assassin just what it was that Riordan had told them.

_The simple intimacy of bare skin and truth_, he thought.

Except he did not know how he was meant to repeat Riordan's words, not with Zevran, not with his assassin. All too often _normally_ words tripped and stumbled out of his mouth clumsily and painfully.

_Zevran, I'm going to die. _

_ Zevran, I'm going to die because I pushed Alistair to be king and so _he_ can't die because he's too important. _

He growled at himself and kicked at the wall until the dull ache of it stole his thoughts. At the fletching tents he idled for the better part of an hour, regarding the Dalish archers as their quick fingers worked over the feathers and the gleaming, newly-cut shafts. Two of them asked him if it was true, if they would be marching to the human city soon, and he nodded. Later, alone, he paused beside the gates again. The dry grass there rippled and swayed beneath the fierce press of the wind. Almost without thinking, he dipped his hand inside his collar again and tugged out the pendant.

It lay in his palm, dark and glossy and cold.

_This_, he thought. This was all he was, and all he had been since that day in the old temple at Ostagar. He bit the inside of his cheek and shoved upright. In the courtyard he found Alistair, arms folded and eyebrows knotted while he observed another handful of soldiers as they traded strokes back and forth.

Unceremoniously, Darrian caught his arm and saw his face soften.

"Any better?" Alistair asked, gently.

"Not at all." For a long moment, he stared at his own hand, marble-pale and shaking slightly against Alistair's elbow. "I'm telling Zev. No one else."

He heard Alistair say something else before he turned away. Inside, he bolted up the stairs two at a time. He discovered the assassin in the library, sitting around the big circular table with Wynne and Leliana, cards and a half-empty wine pitcher strewn between them.

"Ah, my Warden. Care to join our ladies in losing to my expertise?"

"You're not winning, you're cheating," Leliana said sweetly.

"I am playing creatively," the assassin responded, his smile all winsome innocence.

"Zev," Darrian said, and whatever else he wanted to say locked up in his throat. He could feel them looking at him, all three of them, curiously and wonderingly. He threaded his hand through Zevran's and tugged the assassin away from the table.

"I want a chance to win back my dignity later," Leliana called lightly after them. "So please don't maul him too badly."

Zevran _must_ have sensed the awful tension in him, coiled bone-deep. But the assassin said nothing, only let Darrian lead him away and up the last sweep of the stairs and into their chambers again. Zevran's fingers stayed tight around his until he shouldered the door closed.

"Now," Zevran said. "What is it, my Warden?"

He turned and met Zevran halfway, burrowing against his chest and wrapping both arms around his slim waist. "I'm sorry."

Zevran did not laugh. "For what?"

"I need to tell you something."

Carefully, he extricated himself from Darrian's desperate grasp. "Can we sit down?"

Darrian nodded. Awkwardly, he guided the assassin down onto the rug beside him. He leaned into the assassin's shoulder again and closed his eyes. "I think," he said, and blurted out the rest of it before his nerves deserted him. "I'm going to die."

"Why would you say this?"

Slowly, with his face pressed against the assassin's shoulder, he repeated Riordan's words. From his own mouth they sounded odd and hollow, half-muffled against Zevran's tunic. He heard himself say again and again that there were three of them, after all, and it needed to be done, they were all needed, and he was needed, and there was no other way.

"You," Zevran said, strange and unreadable.

"Yes," Darrian answered, because he could think of nothing else to say, nothing else that would bridge the terrible, twining silence. "Please say something."

"I don't know what to say," Zevran said. Wordlessly, he folded his arms around Darrian's shoulders. "I am coming with you."

"What?"

"In Denerim. I am coming with you."

"Zev."

"Don't argue," Zevran said, and he turned his face against Darrian's neck. "Don't."

"No." Darrian breathed in until his mouth was full of Zevran's scent, clean skin and leather and soap. "I'm not."

* * *

><p>In Zevran's arms, Darrian was rigid and shaking, and the assassin wanted to do nothing more than bar the door and take his Warden to bed and ease away the stiff strain he could feel in his Warden's shoulders. He shifted slightly, sliding one hand down his Warden's back, and Darrian flinched.<p>

"Don't go," his Warden murmured.

"I am not going anywhere," Zevran said fiercely. He ran the same hand back up the bowed curve of his Warden's spine, all the way up to the thick mop of black hair.

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm very frightened."

"I know," Zevran said, and he did. He could feel it in the small, shivering tremors that shook his Warden, in the way his Warden's hands met across his back, twisting and uncertain. _Denerim_, he thought, and his stomach clenched. "Darrian?"

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose you are enough of a coward to just simply walk out of the castle gates with me this evening?"

Darrian laughed raggedly. "Really?"

"No, not really. I thought I should ask, though."

"I refuse to believe that you've ever been a coward," Darrian said, very quietly.

"Oh?" Almost absently, he pushed his fingers through Darrian's hair until he found the earring, cool against his skin. "You should have met me when I was seventeen. I believe I did far more running away than I ever did _anything_ courageous."

Darrian laughed again, until Zevran heard the raw hitch in his breathing. The Warden's hands framed his face, fingers shaking against his lips. Very gently, Darrian traced his cheekbones and the swirl of his tattoo and the lift of his chin and his mouth again.

"What is it?" Zevran whispered.

"You." As tenderly, Darrian's fingers threaded through his hair, loosening ties and tugging. Gently, his Warden touched him again, as if he was learning every line and scar and mark and curve, as if he was burning Zevran's face into his thoughts.

"Darrian," he said, when the silence ran strange and heavy.

"Ssh. Just let me look at you."

But they were _not_ merely looking at each other, and Zevran saw it in the trembling, fervent way his Warden combed shaking fingers through his hair. Darrian's thumbs arced across his cheekbones again, and he pressed his mouth against Zevran's throat. This was a farewell, Zevran realised, and part of him wanted to shout at his Warden, shout that it was _not_ about to be over, that there had to be _something_ he could do.

There was always something, something with poison or knives or trickery or shadows or wits.

But his Warden was needed in Denerim, and his Warden was needed to find the archdemon, the thing that drove him from sleep, crying out and ashen. His Warden was needed, and Zevran could not make his thoughts run in straight lines.

"Darrian?"

"Yes?"

Zevran fought to find the right words, any words. Instead, he murmured Darrian's name again. He moved, pulling Darrian against him so that they could coil around each other properly. He held on until his Warden was breathing evenly against his mouth, until the rigid line of his shoulders eased a little.

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"Stay like this?"

He cradled the back of Darrian's head with one hand. "For as long as you want."

* * *

><p>Darrian jolted awake. The sheets were tangled and sticky around his waist. Beside him, Zevran flopped over onto his side and murmured something in Antivan, lilting and soft. He made himself look around, made himself note each normal, unchanged detail of the fire and the mantelpiece and the drawn curtains and the emptied wine pitcher. He kicked the covers away. Out of unthinking habit, he grabbed his breeches and wriggled back into them.<p>

At the casement, he twitched the curtain aside slightly and saw the fading glow of the sunset. They had slept away the afternoon and most of the evening, he realised. Some terrible, needling part of him wondered if he should check on Alistair, check on the arl, check with the servants he knew would be in the corridor, waiting on the Warden's presence.

He rubbed one hand across his forehead. The chamber seemed too small, suddenly, too encroaching with its beams and heavy floor-length curtains and the bright rippling fire at the hearth. He found his shirt on the rug, his tunic alongside it. He dressed quickly and quietly, and when Zevran rolled over again, sighing, he froze. The assassin did not stir, and Darrian scooped up his sword and his boots and fled into the corridor.

He would not be gone long, he supposed, but the guilty gnawing knot in his belly tightened.

He fumbled with the buckles on his boots and his belt and swore when the tang snapped against his thumb. Outside, the courtyard was filled with slanting shadows. Almost without thinking, he darted past the guards at the small gate. The wind shearing in off the lake was cold enough to make him close his eyes, and he stood there for a long moment, his head bent against the chill.

He wandered between the low-roofed houses, his heels catching lazily against the ground. He made his way along the narrow path that led to the lakeshore, and he walked until his feet sank against the sand there, and the wind plucked and pulled at the loose ends of his hair. He stood, hands hooked around his belt, and glared at the grey lake.

"Does the water hold your answers, Warden?" Morrigan asked, quietly.

"No, it doesn't," he answered wearily. "Were you following me?"

"I wondered why you were alone. I wondered why you were out here. So far out here."

"Couldn't sleep. Not hungry."

The witch moved, her feet soundless against the shore. "You were told something today, were you not? Something about the Wardens. Something that drives you away from your assassin again."

"Alright," Darrian said, and swallowed. "Could you just tell me what you think you know? I don't want to chase myself in circles trying to work out what you could possibly mean."

The witch smiled. "Are you not here because you know that you will die?"

He swallowed again. The wind caught against his tongue, dry and cold. "Tell me what you know."

"I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know why Grey Wardens are needed. I know," she said, and turned to look at him. "I know that the one of you who kills the archdemon will die."

"You know."

"Flemeth knows many things," Morrigan said. Her yellow eyes narrowed, and she added, "I can offer you something that will help you. Something that will save you."

"No riddles," Darrian said. He shook his head. "I'm tired, Morrigan. Why are you even here?"

"For this," she said, and something smoked through her voice, low and fierce. "For _this_. To keep you alive. To show you that you do not have to die."

"But I'm a Warden."

"There are ways. Ways that will let you live," she said, and her beautiful, feline smile stretched again. "If you listen to me."

"Go on."

"A ritual," she said. "A ritual that will let you live."

He listened to her, and when she told him that her ritual would mean a child, and a child with the soul of an old god entrapped in flesh, he laughed. He sank down onto the ground and pressed his hands against the sand.

"I'm sorry," he said, and jammed his knuckles against his eyes. "You just asked to take me to bed. Is that right?"

"A bed is not necessary. _You_ are."

"No."

"Think of it," the witch said, each word low and persuasive and silken. She knelt beside him, lithe and watching him. "You will live. You will both live, you and your lover. And Alistair will remain king."

"Why me?"

"You are a survivor." She smiled. "You know this and I know this and Zevran knows this."

"Leave Zevran out of this," he snarled.

"Oh? And you do not think that the survival of his beloved would concern him? Of course it would," Morrigan said. She stepped closer and studied him again, thoughtfully. "It would not take long."

"You're so certain of your own skills, are you?" Darrian gasped out another uneven laugh. "You _do_ know I _really_ do not like women, I hope? I've never bedded a woman and I certainly didn't intend to start with you."

"If I am _so_ unappealing, ask Alistair," she said, he heard the small, frayed edge in her voice. "It must be one of you, and it must be tonight."

"This is why you stayed with us."

"Yes."

"_This_," he said, and dug his fingertips into the cold sand. "You knew all along."

"Yes."

"You didn't say anything."

"Should I have? Would you have believed me?"

"No," he admitted. "I suppose not."

"You are not entirely surprised."

"I always wondered why you stayed." He sighed. "And I am surprised. Horribly and utterly. But I've heard plenty of terrible things today."

"And?"

"No."

Morrigan stilled. The wind fluttered her black hair against the steep angles of her cheekbones. "That is your answer, then?"

"Yes, I mean, I don't," he said. Somehow he battened down the unfurling panic and snapped, "I don't know yet. I want to say no. I _really_ want to say no."

"It must be tonight," she said. "If not, you will die, or Alistair will die, or you will both die."

"Let me think. Just let me think." He curled his fingers against his palms. "I can't…I need to, I mean, you're asking for _my child_. You're asking that I trust you. You're asking that I trust that _my child_ will end up with the archdemon's soul and that this is somehow a good thing."

"The soul of an old god in a different form. It is not the same."

"_You_ say." He sank both hands into the sand again until the rough grains scraped against his skin. "What happens if I say no?"

"I will leave. You will not see me again."

"Just," he said, and desperately he fought to find something else to say. "Stay. Stay until…look, I need to think about this."

"When the sun rises, I will be gone," she said. "You have tonight, Warden, and no longer."

* * *

><p>Zevran drove the poker under the last of the logs and watched the swirl of redness as the embers leaped. He added another chunk of wood and quartered the room again. Under his bare feet, the rug was deep and plush. He was almost certain that he did not begrudge his Warden the privacy of the night outside, or wherever he was, but the insistent impatience in his gut did not dissipate.<p>

_The brittle Fereldan night bit at his hands and his face and the tips of his ears. He rolled over again, huddling deeper beneath the blankets. Whichever way he curled himself, something hard dug into his spine or his hip or the side of his thigh. Eventually, he abandoned any thoughts of a decent sleep and struggled back into his clothes. Outside, the cold made him gasp until he was closer to the fire. _

_ The elven Warden sat there already, cross-legged with his sheathed sword propped against one knee. Beside him, the mabari huffed quietly, half-asleep and huge. "Can't sleep?"_

_ "Apparently not," Zevran replied mildly. He held both hands out to the flames. _

_ "Too cold?"_

_ "This is a cold country. I do not care for it."_

_ "It's got its charms. If you look hard enough."_

_ Zevran laughed. "Indeed? There are beautiful women somewhere? Wine that makes a man's head spin delightfully from the first mouthful?" _

_ The Warden snorted. "Something like that, I'm sure." _

_ "What are its charms for you?"_

_ "Staying alive," the Warden said. _

_ "Only that?" Zevran sat even closer, so that the heat seeped into his face and his shoulders. "And what of the fun of life, hmm?"_

_ "What, slogging through mud and getting rained on and avoiding darkspawn?"_

_ "Oh, you have no sense of fun at all, you Wardens. So serious."_

_ "Someone has to be."_

_ Zevran looked at the Warden's face, pale and sharp. "All the time?"_

_ "No, actually," the Warden said. _

_ "Ah," Zevran retorted, and shot a grin at the other elf. "Is that a promise, then? Will there be evidence to support your claim?"_

_ Darrian laughed then, finally, his blue eyes turning beautifully light. "Maybe. You'll have to see, won't you?" _

The door opened, and Zevran spun upright. "Darrian?"

"I'm sorry," his Warden answered. He nudged the door closed with his heel. "I couldn't sleep."

Zevran looked at him, at the slightly hunched way he held himself, at the way he kept shoving one hand through his tousled black hair. "What is it?"

Darrian laughed unsteadily. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes," Zevran told him softly. "Now come here and talk to me. I will not have you keeping something to yourself. Not tonight."

For a long moment his Warden hesitated, his hands clenching around his belt. He was grappling with himself, and Zevran could see it every time he blinked too hard, every time his lips moved silently. Not hurrying, Zevran closed the distance between them and drew Darrian's hands away from his belt.

"Do you trust me?"

"You know I do," Darrian mumbled.

"Then talk to me. Tell me whatever it is that is troubling you."

As slowly, Zevran led his Warden to the bed. He knelt and worked Darrian's boots off. He turned his attention to his Warden's weapon belt, and Darrian murmured, "I have something I need to tell you. It's about Morrigan."

* * *

><p>Darrian's head felt packed with wool, and he did not want to look up and into Zevran's face. Not when the assassin was sitting close enough that he could feel the coiled impatience in him, not when the assassin's leg was against his, muscles rock-hard with tension.<p>

"No, you will do this, one of you," Zevran snapped. "This is about _survival_."

"You sound just like her," Darrian spat out before he could help himself.

"Then she and I are the sensible ones," Zevran retorted, as venomously. "You want to die?"

"No."

"Then this needs to be done. You or Alistair. Choose."

"It isn't that easy."

"No? It is just an act, my Warden. Skin and flesh and heat."

"It isn't to me. And I thought it wasn't to you."

"Ah." Zevran's hand caught under Darrian's chin, his thumb smoothing the corner of his mouth. "I know. It would be no betrayal. Not if it meant you would live. Indeed, my Warden, spend any longer than necessary in the beautiful witch's arms and I will drag you back to our bedroom naked and screaming if need be."

Shakily, Darrian smiled. "You're awful."

"I wish us both alive," he said, fiercely. "This is not the worst thing that could be asked of you."

"No?"

"No," Zevran echoed. "You can close your eyes and imagine yourself in my arms instead. It's nothing worse than many an Antivan noblewoman has done in her time, I imagine."

"It doesn't bother you," Darrian said, and shook his head incredulously. "It really doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me. But if it means we live, then it should be done."

"And the child? The only reason this will work is because _she_ says a child will be conceived."

"Which is worse," Zevran said, horribly bland. "Your child, or the child of Ferelden's king? Which has more power?"

"I know." He hooked his fingers into fists and swore. "I _know_. For Alistair to have such a liability in his past, and if Anora ever heard _anything_ of it…"

"Now you are thinking more like me. Are you finally learning?"

"I don't know." He turned and leaned his head against the corded line of Zevran's shoulder. "I don't want to do this."

"Because of what she says about the child?"

"Because I don't want to do it."

"Then ask Alistair."

"He shouldn't do it."

"Then we are at the same argument again. Someone must do it."

He shook his head. He wrapped both arms around the assassin. "What if she's lying?"

"Do you think she is?"

"I don't know."

"Then it is better to trust that she _might_ have told you the truth."

"Really? You'd have me go to a woman's bed because she _might_ have a way out of this?"

"No," Zevran snarled, and twisted away from him. "I would have you with me, alive. I would have you with me. If there is a way to make this happen, then we do it."

"_You_ won't be doing anything," Darrian shot back at him. His voice was rising, and he could hear it, and some terrible exhausted part of him no longer cared.

"Are you so stubborn that you would shy away from this?" Zevran turned again, and he cupped the side of Darrian's face, running his fingers over chilled skin until he found the earring, tiny and golden and icy. "If you are not here, how can you stay with me?"

He turned his face into Zevran's hand. He closed his eyes until the thickness in his throat subsided slightly. "But you're," he said, and stopped. "I'm sorry."

Roughly, Zevran turned his head, fingers clamping around his chin. His mouth slanted over Darrian's, hard and insistent and almost painful. "I want you alive," he said. Another deep, lingering kiss stole Darrian's breath and thoughts. "Alive and with me."

"Yes," Darrian murmured. He leaned his forehead against the assassin's. "You're sure?"

"You're not asking that."

"About Morrigan. Not about me."

"They are rather the same argument right now, yes?"

"I suppose," Darrian said, and kissed the assassin's cheekbones and the swirl of his tattoo. "You really think it's that simple? We just go get Alistair, tell him, and then fight over which one of us gets to do it?"

"You have such a way with words."

"You asked." He kissed the corner of Zevran's mouth. "Come with me?"

"To see the witch? I do not think even she would approve."

He groaned. "To see Alistair."

"Of course," Zevran said, and nudged him. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. I suppose." He reached for his boots. "Zev?"

"Yes?"

"I never," he said, and the words rolled shaking and uncertain off his tongue. "Never meant for something like this to happen."

"I know," Zevran said, and he did not smile. Instead, very gently, he ran the back of his fingers down Darrian's cheek. "Now, my Warden. The night will not wait. Are you ready?"

"Yes," he lied, and tried to swallow away the sickening tightness in his throat. "I'm ready."


	14. Shadows

_As always, a huge thank-you to everyone who's following this, and a shout-out to anonymous reviewers who I can't thank directly - thank you so much. As always, I own little and reviews are welcome. **  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Fourteen – Shadows**_

Alistair checked the edge of his sword again and snapped the blade into the scabbard. He turned his attention to his shield next, and then the armour propped up against the far wall. His eyes were gritty with tiredness, but every time he flopped onto the bed, sleep evaded him. Briefly he wondered if he should have taken Oghren's advice and drowned his exhaustion in a dozen glasses of ale instead.

The knock at the door made him jump. He shoved upright and grimaced when he realised that one foot was numb underneath from too much awkward sitting. He opened the door and found himself staring down at Darrian, Zevran on one side of the dark-haired elf and the dog on the other.

"Oh, Maker," Alistair said when he saw Darrian's blanched, terse expression. "What now?"

"For all you know we just want to play cards."

"I'm sure you do," Alistair retorted. "Come in, then."

He closed the door behind them, and when he turned, he felt the silence as it prickled at his spine. Darrian was white-faced, and beside him, even the assassin's usual languid elegance was gone, and his shoulders were stiff. He reached for the soft warmth of the dog's ear, stroked. "What is it?"

"Morrigan," Darrian said. "She…she knows about killing the archdemon. She knows that whoever kills it dies."

"She _what?_" Three steps took him towards the windowseat. He spun, hands tightening. "How could she know that? _We_ didn't know because there was no one to tell us. How does she know?"

"I think Flemeth knew," Darrian said, and shrugged. "I think Flemeth insisted on sending her with us because of this."

"What does it mean?"

"She says she can keep us alive."

"She says," Alistair echoed, and exhaled sharply. "Oh, Maker above. Will you please stop looking at me like that and just tell me?"

"She says," Darrian said again. Heavily, he sat in front of the fireplace, his hands laced over his knees. "She says she can save us. But it means…it means that the archdemon's soul needs something else to go into. Instead of going into one of us."

Alistair swallowed. "And?"

"And she says that if one of us goes to bed with her and gets her with child then it can…she said it can absorb the archdemon's soul. And it won't die. And neither will we."

Slowly, Alistair tried to sort through the desperation in the elf's stumbling, rushed words. "You're joking. _Tell_ me you're joking."

"Sorry."

"A child," he said, and shook his head again. "She wants a child for this."

Darrian said nothing.

"A child that…_my_ child? Or yours? Does it matter which?"

Darrian's head lifted, and hollowly, he answered, "Mine would have no connection to the throne."

"Oh." He swallowed. "Maker above, I feel sick. You're right."

"I know."

Almost without thinking, he looked at Zevran and saw the coiled, wary stillness in him. "How do we know she was telling you anything true?"

"We don't."

"Do you even _want_ to do this?"

"No," Darrian said.

"No," Alistair murmured. "I don't either. I don't like…" He was not sure, suddenly, how to frame the right words, or any words. He remembered Flemeth's curious, studying gaze, and her black-haired daughter, pale and beautiful and reticent.

_"Are you ready, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?" _

He felt the weight of Darrian's gaze on him, so he blurted out, "Do you believe her?"

"No. I don't know. I just…" The elf shook his head. "I feel like now she's told me, we have to go through with it just in case. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. It doesn't make it feel any better, though." His knees felt stupidly weak, so he sat beside the elf. The dog nosed at the side of his leg, and he scrubbed his knuckles along the dog's thick neck. "I just…let's say we do this. You do this. It works and we survive. What happens then? Does she come back in twenty years with this child and whatever it's become?"

"She says she'll leave and we won't know anything about it." Darrian's chin lifted. "I just…if she's lying, and you do it, then she could come out of nowhere with a competing claim to the throne."

"And _that_ is the part that worries you? She offers you the chance to have a demon child, and my throne bothers you?"

"It is the sensible worry," Zevran snapped.

"Yes, I know." Alistair stared vaguely at the dog's huge paws where they were crossed near his feet. _How_, he wondered, _how had Darrian felt at the witch's words? _The same as him, uneasiness and leaping wild hope all at once? Silently, he glanced at Zevran again, and then back to Darrian, and he realised that somehow they had both chosen. "Whatever I say doesn't matter, does it?"

"Not really," Darrian answered, and his voice shook slightly. "I hate the idea of it. I'm sweating all over and I'm terrified and I don't even know if I trust her at all."

"You don't have to do this."

"You're the king."

"That doesn't matter."

"It does and you know it," Darrian snarled.

"Yes, alright." He pressed his palm against his forehead. "Maker's breath, can't you ever give me good news?"

"No," Darrian said, and did not smile.

"Maker above, I feel strange asking this. Are you…going to go see her now?"

"Yes."

"And afterwards?"

"What, you want details?"

Alistair groaned. "_No_."

"Afterwards I am going to bed and I am going to pretend to be asleep."

"We're leaving early tomorrow. Today. Whichever."

"Yes, thank you, Mother," Darrian said mildly.

"Very funny." He stared down at his own hands, nicked and scarred and unsteady against the solid bulk of the dog's shoulder. He was too aware of Zevran's taut, impatient silence, and the way Darrian wove his fingers together, sliding and pale.

"If I do this," Darrian said. "And we all live through this, I want a cellar full of the most expensive wine in Denerim."

Alistair laughed, gasping and uneven. "Anything else?"

"A collar with jewels on it."

"For you, my Warden?" Zevran smirked. "I had not thought you so adventurous."

"For the _dog_, you dreadful Antivan."

"Ah, well. I can live in hope."

Darrian uncoiled to his feet. "Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"If it doesn't work, if, well, if she was lying, then…"

"Then we do what we need to do," Alistair said, very softly. "Agreed?"

"Yes."

"Darrian?"

"Yes?"

For a long moment, Alistair faltered. He distracted himself by standing and turning and kicking his feet against the rug. "I'm sorry," he said, helplessly.

"I know," Darrian said, and the severe line of his mouth softened. "So am I."

* * *

><p>All the way to the castle gates, Zevran was silent, and the hand he had wrapped around Darrian's was dry and cool. The night was still full of the wind and the cold of the stone walls.<p>

"Zev, talk to me," Darrian said, and tugged the assassin closer.

"Forgive me," he answered, and smiled slightly. "My thoughts are running in circles."

"I know what you mean."

"I should leave you here, my Warden," he said, and lifted the back of Darrian's hand to his lips.

"Where will you be?" Darrian demanded, sharper than he intended.

"In your room, waiting for you." Very gently, the assassin kissed his forehead and his mouth. "I am not going anywhere."

Some terrible frantic part of him wanted to make Zevran swear to wait for him, to promise again and again that he would wait, that he would be there. He wanted to bury himself in Zevran's arms and kiss him until his lips were parted and swollen. "Zev?"

"Yes?"

Slowly, he let his fingers play through Zevran's hair and across the pointed tip of his ear. He shook his head and turned away and tried to shove aside the needling guilt. He made himself listen to the stumbling sound of his boots against the ground. He wondered if Zevran was watching him, if he had already ducked back through the gate, if he was on his way inside, _what he was feeling_.

He passed the lakeshore, the water there gleaming and ruffled into pewter ripples by the wind. When the high stand of pine trees closed around him, he stopped. The darkness was all trembling, shifting shadows.

"Morrigan?" he asked, and the wind swallowed his voice. He tried again, calling her name twice. "Are you here?"

She stepped between the trees, and slowly she regarded him. "You have made a choice, then?"

"Yes," he said. "Me."

"Ah. As you wish it, then, Warden."

"Wait," he told her. "I don't…I want it over quickly. I don't want…"

Her yellow eyes softened slightly. "Do what you need to do, Warden. I will wait, and we will have it over with quickly."

He pushed aside the sudden, wrenching urge to laugh. Absurdly he wondered if he should thank her. He turned until he had one hand braced against the tree behind him. He was too aware of her listening presence beneath the grey lines of the trees. He could hear her breathing, evenly and unhurried.

He reached into his breeches and desperately, he tried to stroke himself hard. He thought of Zevran's weight above him, pinning him to the bed, hands around his wrists, the assassin's mouth on his, soft and damp and seeking. He thought of Zevran beneath him, all dusky skin and warmth and clever hands and the sickening, guilty knot in his stomach tightened.

He breathed in deeply, until his mouth was full of the scent of the pines. This time, he slowed his pace and let his eyes close and tried to keep his mind blank until his body responded. He worked himself to the very edge of climax and shuddered when he made himself slow down again.

"Alright," he said, his voice jarringly loud in the stillness.

He sat with his back to the tree, the bark digging against his tunic. Morrigan stayed silent, and a single, sliding motion had her on his lap, her back against his chest. She moved again, rocking against him until he was buried to the hilt in her. He kept his hands curled at his sides, and his gaze found her shoulders, narrow beneath the fall of her robes. Wordlessly, she rose and fell against him until the wet heat and frantic, slapping rhythm of her hips sent him over the brink.

As quickly, she lifted herself off him. She was pale in the moonlit shadows, the glossy wreath of her black hair still neat.

"That's it?" he heard himself say.

"Yes, Warden. That is it."

She turned, and the shifting gloom swallowed her. He sat, sweat drying on his lips, and stared up at the branches. When he dragged himself upright, his head spun. He fastened his breeches and tried to ignore the dizzying uneasiness that had settled inside him.

_How did she know_, he wondered. _How did she know that a child would grow? How had she been so sure? How _could_ she be so sure? _

Slowly, he made his way back through the weaving trees. Inside the high, echoing arches of the castle, he tried not to look at the guards. He chose the quickest way up to the second floor, darting up the small set of stairs near the kitchen. He shoved the door open finally, and before he was halfway over the threshold, his arms were full of Zevran, warm and familiar and breathing against the side of his neck.

For a long time, Zevran was silent, only holding onto him, one hand on his waist and the other sliding up his back.

"There is hot water," Zevran said eventually. "And food that I will make sure you eat. The wine I can take care of myself."

Darrian gulped out a laugh. "I might have to fight you for it if you won't share."

He let Zevran close the door behind him, and he let Zevran peel his clothes and weapons away. The assassin did not say the witch's name, and he did not comment on the sweat that dappled Darrian's neck, or the heady scent of pine needles that clung to him.

Zevran washed his hair first, supple fingers rubbing against his scalp. As tenderly, the assassin lingered over his hands and his face and press of his collarbones. Later, half-dry on the sheets, he ate the sliced apples and salted meat and dark bread the assassin pushed into his hands. They shared the wine, and after his hands shook around the delicate stem of the glass, Zevran wordlessly took it from him and passed him the decanter instead.

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"Will you sit with me?"

"Of course I will."

At the hearth, he sat opposite the assassin, watching the coppery play of the firelight over the planes of his face. "Your eyes," Darrian said, and traced the soft skin beneath.

"Mmm? What about them?"

"Striking."

"Oh? Only that?"

"Stop begging for compliments. Insufferable Antivan."

"And here I was hoping for a cascade of poetic comparisons."

Darrian stared down at their hands, wreathed together between them. The aching, exhausted tension in him coiled and broke, and he mumbled, "Zev, I'm so sorry."

"There is no need."

He ran his thumbs across Zevran's palms. "Imagining you just made it worse."

"Oh? And here I thought my charms were foremost in your thoughts."

"No, I…it just made it harder."

"Or not harder," Zevran said, and grinned.

Darrian groaned. "Be quiet. I've had a long day. And a long night."

"Come here," Zevran said, and drew him closer.

He sat between Zevran's raised knees, his feet meeting behind Zevran's back and his chin leaning against the assassin's shoulder. He sat like that while the fire burned down, feeling the slow, steady thump of the assassin's heartbeat against his chest.

* * *

><p>Dawn found Darrian astride his horse, gritty-eyed with fatigue. They pressed on fast through the blustery morning, and the whenever he nudged his horse closer to Zevran's to talk, the wind snatched at his words. The arl's guards kept pace on either side, and eventually, Darrian surrendered and turned his attention on sitting properly in the saddle instead. The evening brought low clouds and rain in cold squalls, and he huddled beneath his cloak and shivered. Tiredly, he made himself meet briefly with the arl, and after he excused himself, he ducked into the wind-rippled royal tent.<p>

Lanternlight met him, swimming over the bright edges of rugs and a mahogany table and an unfurled banner and the silver curves of wine pitchers. "This is ridiculous," he said before he could think better of it.

"I know," Alistair answered from where he sat at the table. "I don't know why Eamon thinks I need so much space."

Zevran fought through the wind-tugged tent flaps behind, and offered, "I can think of a few reasons, most of them involving lots of people and lots of oil."

Darrian smiled. "Following me, are you?"

"Of course, my Warden."

"Are your guards likely to come back?" Darrian asked.

"I told them to go get some sleep," Alistair answered. He pushed away from the table. In the pooling marigold light, his face was drawn and pale. "I think they were nervous and tired enough that they just obeyed me. I'm sure the moment the wind blows the wrong way, Eamon will have others stampeding down here to protect me."

Darrian sat on the biggest rug, fur-edged and patterned with scarlet lines. The assassin curled beside him, and the chill scent of the night clung to his bare hands and the loose golden hair at his nape.

"Don't you two have anything else to do?" Alistair asked mildly. He scooped up the wine pitcher and three glasses.

"Nothing you want me to tell you about," Darrian said.

"What's worrying you?"

"Have you seen Morrigan today?"

"Earlier," Alistair answered. He poured even measures of dark, gleaming wine. "She wasn't speaking to anyone, but that's not unusual. You don't think she'll vanish?"

"No," Darrian admitted. "Not yet, anyway. I just…I feel like I'm about eight years old and I have an awful secret and I'm hoping that no one says anything."

"Well, _I_ won't."

"Yes, but I trust you," he muttered. "I don't trust her."

"She will likely not," Zevran said, almost musingly. "She is a woman who is most shrewd. What would she gain that would be to her advantage? Nothing. Especially not if her plan requires her to be gone eventually as she claimed."

Darrian nodded slowly. He sipped at the wine, and it flooded rich and heady across his tongue. "What do you need me to do tomorrow?"

"Just what you have been doing. Talk to the scouts. Talk to anyone who looks at you funny and tell them that they'll be alright." One side of Alistair's mouth moved. "Or maybe you could come show some support when I make a speech tomorrow."

"Another one? Lucky you."

"You mean you're not inspired by me? We should've made _you_ king, and then you could see how horrible it is, talking to so many people all at once."

"Should have made Zev king," Darrian replied, and leaned his head against the assassin's shoulder. "At least he likes the sound of his own voice."

"Maker, no. I can't imagine anything worse. Can you imagine the kinds of things he'd make laws?"

"Charming," Zevran remarked, and his lips brushed the crown of Darrian's head.

Darrian smiled. "Sorry."

"You aren't."

"Maybe a little." He stared down at the wine, dark and shimmering. "It all feels so strange, doesn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Alistair said, and grinned tiredly over the rim of his cup. "Two years ago I just _knew_ I'd be sitting around wondering where on an archdemon is the best place to hit."

Darrian spluttered into a laugh. "Of course you did."

* * *

><p>The next days brought bitter cold and wind-rattled forests lidded by the grey sky. Darrian woke most mornings before dawn, shivering and twisting in Zevran's arms until he remembered where he was and who he was with.<p>

"It's in my head," he murmured against the assassin's shoulder. "Every night. I can hear it. It's _here_."

Zevran did not ask, or even offer empty words. He drew Darrian down onto the blankets again, and his hands soothed the rigid, fearful tension in his shoulders. When Darrian emerged into the rain-lashed morning, his head still buzzed with it, the needling, seeking darkness of the dream. He found Alistair near the picketed line of horses, and when he looked up at the man, he knew that they had both dreamed it.

_Wings unfurling against the slate-coloured sky and the fierce eyes raging and the scream of it, boring through flesh and blood and bone until his whole body rang. _

He spent that evening and the next with Riordan, leaning over the map table in Alistair's tent.

"No," he said, and shook his head. He tapped one finger against the parchment. "I know the Alienage and the poor quarter. I can get myself through the city better and quicker from there."

"Very well." Riordan leaned back in his chair. Beneath black brows and stubble, the man's face was pinched with fatigue. "We will need your allies to break the darkspawn ranks."

"And we go after the big flying monster," Alistair said from where he sat, his sword braced across his knees and a whetstone in one hand. "Yes?"

"Yes. A small group will move all the faster."

"If this doesn't work," Alistair said quietly. "If something happens, then those allies of ours are going to get slaughtered."

"Yes," Riordan responded. "Which means we need to draw the archdemon's attention, and quickly."

"It'll know we're there," Darrian said, and dug his fingertips against the map. It could take itself anywhere, he realised, anywhere in Denerim or around Denerim and they would _have_ to find it regardless. _Find it before it levels the city,_ he thought, and tried to banish the digging, anxious fear.

_Shianni. Father. Soris. _

Too stubborn to leave, all of them, he was certain of it. Too stubborn to leave until the darkspawn tore the city gates aside, and by then he knew it would be too late in any case. _No,_ he thought. _They had weapons in Father's house and they knew how to use them and surely they would barely need them because he would get there soon because he _had_ to. _

He mumbled something vaguely apologetic to Riordan and Alistair and darted out into the brittle night. In the tent he discovered Zevran shrouded in fur-lined blankets and reading, two lanterns propped near his elbow.

"Wynne gave me this," the assassin said, and grinned. "And let me tell you that it is _delightfully_ filthy."

Darrian smiled. "I'm sure it is."

"You don't believe me? I can read some to you, if you want."

"No, thank you."

He kicked off his boots and his tunic and gasped at the sudden cold. He burrowed under the blankets beside the assassin, wriggling until he could see Zevran's profile, and one elegant hand, fanned out against the book. He reached out, traced his fingers along the back of Zevran's forearm. "Zev?"

"Mmm?"

For a long moment he simply looked at the assassin, at the unbound spill of his golden hair, at the slight tilt of his mouth. "Don't laugh at me," he said.

"Would I?"

"Frequently. I…" He tightened his grip on the assassin's forearm. "I'm sorry it took so long."

"For what?"

"For me to say yes. To you. To this."

The book snapped shut. In one feline motion, the assassin rolled over, his arms sliding under the blankets and around Darrian's shoulders.

"That," he said, his lips moving against Darrian's neck. "Is something I agree with. But also something that sounds suspiciously like _goodbye_."

"No, I…"

"Oh, I know you, my Warden," Zevran said, very gently. "I know you rather well."

Darrian turned his head so that he could nuzzle his mouth against the assassin's cheek. "Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you're here."

* * *

><p>When the scouts brought news of darkspawn in the forest, Darrian was out of his saddle and on his feet before he thought about it. Behind him, Alistair yanked hard on his reins and said, "Slow down. Not on your own. <em>Don't<em>."

He stopped, stumbling against his horse. He pressed one hand against the horse's warm flank, felt the slow, even pace of its breathing. "Yes," he said. "You're right. I'm sorry."

He waited, the impatience burning under his skin, while orders were shouted. With Zevran and the dog, and twenty scouts, he prowled away from the jangling, stamping noise of the main column. The trees closed around him, high stands of silver birches, and he stopped, eyes closing.

They were here, the darkspawn, and he could feel them, seeping through the trees like smoke.

He remembered Ostagar, and how he had looked down on the valley there, all seething with them, the chaos of it ringing inside his head in dreams for days and days afterwards. This was different, and he realised with an awful, prickling shock that it was not just _sound_, it was _words_, words whispering and surging in his thoughts.

Words that he could not speak, and words that ran into each other, but _words_ all the same, and he shivered.

He motioned the scouts on carefully, and when they crossed through a small, sloping glade, he called out a warning. The darkspawn crashed into them, and his mouth was filled with the reek of death and rust and blood. He heard someone shriek. Arrows whipped overhead, and he heard the thump as they met skin and leather and flesh.

He turned, dropping beneath the sweep of a darkspawn's sword. It was big and muscled and heavy, and when he whirled past it, it lumbered to follow. He pirouetted again, and one hard swipe opened the darkspawn's throat. He pushed on, sword flicking out to meet another darkspawn's lunging attack. This one battered its sword against his again and again, and another blow numbed his arm to the elbow.

Half-staggering, he backed away. He kicked out at the darkspawn, landed a clumsy strike against its thigh. It swayed, and he closed the distance again, driving his sword to the hilt in its belly. He wrenched clear, and the stink of its blood assailed him.

Something solid smacked into his shoulder and he threw himself sideways. He spun upright and found himself staring up into another darkspawn's saw-toothed smile. He fumbled with his sword hilt. The darkspawn's axe swung, and the haft drove against his shoulder. The impact ruined his balance and he stumbled, heels catching uselessly against the ground. Desperately, he snapped his sword at the darkspawn's arm. The blade glanced against the creature's bracer. The flat of the axe slammed his arm aside, and sickeningly, he understood that it was playing with him.

He gathered himself, bracing his weight on his right foot. He waited out another heartbeat. The darkspawn's axe arced up and Darrian launched himself beneath it. He rolled up to his feet and raked his sword across the darkspawn's throat. Almost too slowly, he stepped aside and watched it topple.

There were more, and he could see them, slipping through the trees. Another hail of arrows whirred overhead, and he heard Zevran shouting to the scouts to _keep it up, keep pushing them back_.

Three of them wove through despite the arrows, and then more of them, and through the cold morning, Darrian stood beside Zevran and the scouts and held them off. Eventually, exhausted, his shoulders aching and blood running from a long gash on his arm, he glared at the blank stand of trees.

"Darrian," Zevran said, quietly. "Is that it?"

Around him, the forest was silent. "I think so," he answered, slightly hesitant. "Yes. I think so."

The noon sun showed through parting clouds by the time they caught up with the main column again. Filthy and sweating, Darrian pushed his way past the soldiers until he found Alistair, shield strapped across his shoulders and burnished armour gleaming.

"What happened?" Alistair wheeled his horse. "I sent out three other patrols."

"We lost nine," Darrian answered. "What happened to the others?"

"I've had no word."

Darrian nodded heavily. "There were a lot of them."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"I, well," Alistair said, and coughed. "If we keep up this pace, we'll be there tomorrow."

The name of the city hung between them, silent and terrible, and Darrian swallowed. "Yes, I know. I'm hungry. I'll see you later?"

He heard Alistair murmur something in agreement, and he turned away. He found his horse and heaved himself up into the saddle and ignored the tremble in his shoulders. The day wore slowly into dusk, and around him, the soldiers and the scouts murmured about the city and the darkspawn and the awful things they would find there. _Tomorrow_, he thought, and loosened the reins around the horse's neck. His feet hit the ground unsteadily. He wandered through the camp and around the dicing tent and past the tethered horses. Some of the soldiers called his name and he nodded absently to them.

He walked until he discovered Zevran at the edge of the camp, his head tilted back, and his eyes on the sweep of the rising stars above.

"I didn't know where you were," Darrian blurted.

Zevran turned, and his smile softened. "You have heard too, then?"

"Yes, tomorrow. But you knew that."

"Yes, I guessed."

The silence rose up between them, and Darrian fought for something to say. "Zev, if it, I mean, if we…"

Zevran's head tilted. "What is it that you need to say to me?"

_Everything_, he thought, and still, the words would not obey.

Zevran opened his mouth again, and Darrian did not let him speak. Instead, he buried his hands in the assassin's hair and kissed him, hard and demanding. He led Zevran back to their tent, and in the lantern-lit shadows there, he pulled the assassin down onto the spill of the blankets. He shed his clothes and pulled Zevran's aside. Wordlessly, he clung to the assassin. He ran his hands along the contours of the assassin's body, finding lines and hollows, following the curves of his tattoos, the tangles of old scars. He closed his eyes and tried to lose himself to the slick feel of the assassin's skin against his. He brought his knees up around the assassin's hips, and when Zevran filled him, he writhed.

"Zevran," he said, and shuddered. With his face pressed to the assassin's shoulder and nothing but bare skin and heat between them, it was easier somehow, easier to frame the aching words. "Zevran, I love you."

"Yes," Zevran breathed. "I know that."

"Zevran, I should've said something earlier, I should've…"

"No, my Warden," he said, very gently. His hands stroked through Darrian's hair. "Not now. You can tell me this again tomorrow, when we are both victorious."

"Yes," he said, and something inside him twisted. "Tomorrow."

Zevran cradled the back of his head and kissed him, and he drank him in, all heat and salt and desperation. He braced his hands flat on the assassin's chest and rolled them both over. He drove himself against Zevran again and again. Zevran's fingers caught in his hair and tugged him down. He tasted sweat and soft skin and the rain-scent of the night outside.

The damp, sliding friction between them was too much, and when Zevran's hand snaked down Darrian's chest and wrapped around him, his climax shattered him. He groaned something against Zevran's shoulder and felt the assassin's hips snap up against his.

Afterwards, Zevran found cloths and water and cleaned him. When he tried to straighten up and help, the assassin pushed his hands away tenderly. "No. Let me do this for us."

The water cooled on his skin and he shivered. He buried himself under the blankets and beckoned Zevran under with one hand. "Aren't you cold?"

Still entirely naked, the assassin grinned and nodded. "Yes, but maybe I am becoming used to it."

Zevran doused the lantern, and then the assassin curled up alongside him, his skin chilled against Darrian's, and fine tremors wracking him.

"Liar," Darrian muttered.

"Forgive me?"

He smiled and threaded both arms around Zevran's waist, hauling him close so they could settle properly against each other, one of his legs between the assassin's, and his hand over the thudding pulse at Zevran's throat. In the darkness, before he could think better of it, he asked, "What do you want to do afterwards?"

"Ravish you so thoroughly that neither of us will be able to walk properly."

Darrian smirked. "And after that?"

"I think that perhaps I will take you to Antiva with me," Zevran said, and ran his hand through Darrian's hair. "And you will see how beautiful it is."

"I don't speak a word of Antivan."

"You can learn, my Warden."

"You'll have to teach me."

"I will."

"I'm a terrible student."

"I am a wonderful teacher, my Warden."

"Is that a promise?"

Zevran laughed, and somehow, unerringly, his thumbs smoothed across Darrian's cheekbones. "Yes, that is a promise."


	15. Flames

_As always, a huge thank you to everyone who's reading, reviewing or has this story on alerts or favourites. Bioware owns nearly everything. Just a reminder of the rating for this chapter, and reviews are always welcome. **  
><strong>_

_**Chapter Fifteen – Flames**_

Denerim burned. The gulping breaths Darrian choked down seared his throat until he coughed. He rubbed his knuckles across stinging eyes. His head pounded, and he could _hear_ them all, the darkspawn as they surged over the cobbles, as they killed and ran and bolted through the ruined gates and drove their swords into dying men again and again.

"Easy," Zevran murmured into his ear. "_Easy_, my Warden. I am here."

He nodded. He forced down another breath and leaned into the assassin's shoulder. "I can hear them. In my head, I can hear them."

"I know," Alistair said, braced on his other side. Teeth gritted, the man added, "It hurts, doesn't it?"

"Yes." For a long, wrenching moment, he steadied himself. He _had_ to make himself move again, had to make himself quicken his pace until they were deeper into the city. They needed to move before the alley behind filled with darkspawn again, and he knew that the arl's soldiers were marching up through the city behind them and he knew that he needed to find the archdemon.

"Darrian," Alistair said raggedly, and grabbed at his arm. "Are you even _listening?_"

"Yes," he snarled back. "I mean, I was, I just…Sorry."

"Come on," Alistair said. "We're too exposed. We need to move."

Numbly, he nodded. Beneath his feet the stone was slippery with blood and last night's rain. He pushed on, prowling through an archway and into a wide courtyard, heaped with debris and the dead. On both sides, smoked plumed up from sloping roofs. Again he wondered how long it had gone on, how long the darkspawn had ploughed through the streets, how long it had taken until the grey stone was scorched. There were too many people, he thought, too many of them, piled up and lifeless and sometimes burning. Guards in twisted, blackened armour and women with their teeth white above the gaping red holes of their throats and children and sometimes the darkspawn, fallen and bristling with arrows.

At the marketplace, flames licked along the sides of toppled wagons and stalls. The darkspawn met them there, thundering out from the flickering shadows. Morrigan called up a whirling spell that turned the air brittle and icy. Beside her, Wynne's hands flashed, and some terrible energy tore the space between them until the ground shook.

Darrian waited, sword hefted, counting his own heartbeats as the darkspawn closed the distance. One moment, another, and he spun, his blade arcing up and into a darkspawn's flank. Methodically, he cut his way through them, barely aware of the whine of Leliana's arrows or Zevran's wordless presence at his shoulder. Another stroke scythed a darkspawn to its knees, and he turned with the sweeping momentum until his sword sheared through its neck.

"Clear?" Alistair asked.

"Yes, I think so," Wynne said.

Darrian opened his mouth to respond and the needling, biting whispers in his head rose up again. Almost without thinking, he looked up at the cloud-scudded sky, as red and glowing as the burning city.

_Dark and breathing and the shape of a dragon as its wings carved against the emptiness. _

Darrian stared up at it, the dragon, the thing that wore the dragon's shape, tail lashing as it flew. His chest tightened, and horribly, he realised that he was awake, that there was no dream to shove aside.

He stumbled, and Zevran caught his wrist.

"Not yet," the assassin said. "You cannot go stampeding off after it just yet, my Warden. It is rather big, yes?"

The dragon's great wings dipped again, and dark flames spilled from its mouth. Silently, Darrian watched, and some part of him wondered who might be dying beneath it. The dragon howled, and his head seemed to split with the relentless, beautiful sound of it. The dragon plunged, wings curling up until the high, spearing towers swallowed it.

He wanted to follow it.

He wanted to follow it and find it.

"Darrian," Zevran said, sharply.

Guiltily, he nodded. "Sorry. I'm here."

"Barely," Zevran said, and his voice softened. "Now. You know the quickest path to the Alienage, yes?"

* * *

><p>The vhenadahl was burning, flames twining between the branches. Darrian swallowed back an unbidden surge of anger. <em>Stupid<em>, he thought. All around him, roofs and broken windows shed smoke, and he had recognized too many of the dead elves in the square, and it was the _tree_ that troubled him?

"Come on," he snarled over his shoulder, and did not stop to see if the others were keeping pace. He hurried between the small houses, the space between the leaning gables veiled with smoke.

His father's house was silent and empty, as he had so desperately hoped it would be. Even so, his stomach flipped over, and he kicked the door in and shouted his father's name until his mouth turned dry. _No blood_, he thought, and tried to rein in the lurching panic. _No bodies. Nothing. No darkspawn. _

Survival mattered, and he supposed they would have fled somewhere more defensible, somewhere they could blockade themselves and hide and wait out the darkspawn.

Outside, he combed his way through the winding, tiny alleyways. Darkspawn hurtled out of sloping doorways and died under Zevran's swords, or else were shoved back beneath the punishing weight of Alistair's shield. Darrian threw himself away from another darkspawn's onrushing attack. He heard the heavy whine of the darkspawn's axe as it sliced the air behind him. He pushed upright again and swore when he realised his shoulders were against the wall. He had lost too much space, and too quickly, and the darkspawn was tall and muscled and filling his sight.

He dropped, and the axe hammered against the stone wall. Desperately, he rolled to one side. He uncoiled to his feet in time to see Zevran's sword buried almost to the hilt in the darkspawn's belly.

"Thanks," he said, and exhaled shakily. "I got myself stuck against the wall."

"Be careful," Zevran responded, slightly wry. The sword slid free, the sound of it wet and steely. "Dying in an alleyway is not _nearly_ heroic enough."

"Very funny."

Darrian slipped past him, pausing long enough to touch his shoulder. On both sides, the crowded roofs opened out, and when he turned the last corner, he heard the familiar, jarring noise of combat. He noticed the elves first, pressing themselves back from the darkspawn, and panic unreeled through his gut. None of them were clad for battle, not properly, and he saw more of them, heaped up and dead, and the darkspawn marching past them.

_They were being herded_, he realised. _Herded back against the high walls of the square. _

He shouted for Morrigan to call up her magic, and then he was running, sword dipping up and the point digging into the first darkspawn's side. Nearby, someone screamed, high-pitched and ragged. How long, he wondered, how long had the elves held out here? How long had they stood here, chased and forced into this terrible, debris-crowded square?

The sharp, metallic scent of spilled blood assailed him, and he remembered the estate, and the door as it swung open.

_Blood, and he knew it the instant he stepped over the threshold. More of it dripped from his sword, and Soris' sword, and stuck in patches to the side of his leg. _

"_Oh," Soris mumbled. _

_Darrian followed his gaze, and the breath locked up in his lungs. He saw Shianni first, and then the human, the tall nobleman with the clipped voice and the cold eyes. Broken glass on the floor behind her, and the wrinkled spill of silk sheets. Some rational part of him had known – had _always known_ – what they were likely to find. But it was different, horribly and icily different, to be standing and seeing it, _seeing_ the man's hands on Shianni's white thighs, seeing the blood on the floor beneath her. _

_Somehow he crossed the room, the rage a twisting, simmering knot in his chest. The man was moving, reaching for his clothes, saying something. Something about elves and guards and what was he doing here, another elf, and was he not the same one, the black-haired one who had snarled something impertinent in the square? _

_ One strike drove the man to his knees, blood welling from the deep gouge on his chest. Another had the sword flicked around and the blade raking across the man's throat. Darrian turned away, uncaring as the man toppled. He dropped the sword. _

_ Very carefully, he knelt beside her and lifted the sheet. She shook her head at him so he reached further until he could grasp her dress. Wordlessly, he passed it across and she hunched herself around the creased fabric. He needed her up and on her feet and out of the estate, but her eyes were wild and wide and he did not know how to ask her. _

_ One of her hands brushed his, cold and trembling slightly. "Is he dead?"_

_ "He's dead. It's done."_

_ "Let me see him."_

_ "Shianni."_

_ "Let me _see_ him." _

_ He steered her to her feet, and she swayed against him. She turned her head, and he saw the bruises that mottled her throat and the pale skin beneath her collarbone. She stared at the dead man until Darrian touched the back of her hand, very gently. _

_ "Shianni," he said. "We need to go."_

_ She gave him a silent nod. She fumbled with the dress and tried to haul it on over her head and winced. With slow, cautious movements, he helped her, working the fabric over the bowed curve of her shoulders. Very gently, he found the hem and pulled it down over her legs. He finished with the laces on the sleeves and saw that she was staring blankly at Soris. _

_ "You're here too?"_

_ Soris nodded. Beneath the red thatch of his hair, he was ashen. "Yes. We both came. We're…I'm sorry it took us so long to get here." _

_ Quietly and warily, Darrian led them back through the twisting maze of the estate. Shianni grabbed his hand, holding on hard enough to hurt. She did not let go of him even when they hurried back through the gates and into the Alienage. At his father's house, she silently accepted a bowl of hot water and clean cloths and vanished into the small bedroom that was his. _

_ With his throat too thick and his head throbbing, Darrian made his way outside. He found his father and Soris, and before they could ask, he muttered, "She's cleaning herself up."_

_ "Darrian," Father began. _

_ "No," he snapped. "That bastard had her on the floor and covered in blood. What do you _think_ happened? She didn't…"_

_ "I know," Father said, softly. "What did you do?"_

_ "I killed him," he snarled. "He was right on top of her and I pulled him off and I cut his throat."_

_ For a long moment, his father said nothing, only looked at him. "Were you seen?"_

_ "I don't know. There's plenty of servants at that estate, you know that. We could've been any of them." _

_ "And if questions are asked?"_

_ "Then we lie. Don't we always?"_

_ "Yes," Soris said. "But we don't usually kill noblemen."_

_ "One man," he said. "And _I_ killed him. Not you. You stood there and did nothing. There's nothing to blame _you_ for."_

_ "That's not fair." _

_ "Isn't it?" _

_ "Darrian," Father said. _

_ "Not now." He ached, and he wanted to lash out, wanted to scream at his father, scream at Soris, both of them pale and silent and looking_ _at him, looking at him as if they might be afraid. The nobleman had died too quickly, crumpling beneath the borrowed sword. He should have taken his time with the man. He should have gotten himself there faster. _

_ "Darrian."_

_ "No," he said, quietly. He battened down the ugly, twisting anger. He turned away from them, and stepped back into the house. At his bedroom door he paused and knocked. "Shianni? It's me."_

_ "Come in, if you want."_

_ He did, and he discovered her perched on the end of the narrow bed, an old blue tunic draped over her thin frame and her legs bare beneath it. The water in the bowl was ribboned with blood, and he swallowed slowly. _

_ "Do you need," he said, and coughed. "Do we need to get you any healing?"_

_ "No."_

_ "You're sure?"_

_ "Yes." _

_ Silence clamped down, and he did not know what to do. She _always_ spoke, always filled the quietness, her fingers dancing alongside her words. "Can I sit with you?"_

_ She nodded. _

_Still moving slowly, he sat beside her. He unhooked the laces on his boots, kicked them off. He shifted slightly, so that his shoulder was against hers, and he could feel the locked tension in her. _

"_I don't know what to say," he told her honestly. "We should've been there sooner."_

"_He's dead. That matters."_

"_Yes."_

"_Darrian," she said, and then she turned so that she was hiding herself against the crook of his shoulder. _

_Without thinking, he gathered her properly into his arms. He could feel her heartbeat, fluttering and uneven. For a long time she stayed there, curling herself against his chest. _

"_Shianni?"_

_She lifted her head, her eyes dry and her face marble-pale. "What?"_

"_That's my tunic you're wearing."_

_The corners of her mouth moved. "You shouldn't leave things lying around."_

"_I didn't. You stole it."_

"_Looks better on me," she told him, and burrowed beneath his shoulder again. _

Darrian pirouetted beneath the livid arc of a darkspawn's sword. Another one staggered past him, and two arrows thumped into its stomach, driving it to its knees. Something heavy ploughed into his shoulder and he swayed. Zevran whirled past him, swords flashing, and another darkspawn toppled.

"Darrian," Zevran said, and leaned into him. "It's done."

"Darrian?"

For a strange, frantic instant, he froze. He made himself turn until he was looking into Shianni's wide, limpid eyes. He saw the blood that tracked across her forehead and dampened the side of her tunic. He noticed the bow in her hands and blurted, "Since when could you aim properly?"

She smiled, shaky and uneven. "Since I had to. Since when did I say you could rescue me again?"

"We didn't. We were just on our way somewhere else."

"Of course you were." Her hand tightened on her bow. "Soris is here, somewhere. Your father's alright."

"Oh," he managed. "Thank you."

"Darrian?"

"Yes?"

"You're an idiot," she said, and closed the distance between them. Her bow hit the ground, and her arms wrapped around his waist. "What are you doing here?"

"You saw the dragon?"

"Yes. Saw it flying a bit too close a few times," she said, into the side of his neck.

"That's why I'm here."

"Going to ride it?"

Breathlessly, he laughed. "I can barely ride a horse."

"Thank you," she said. "For getting here. They tore through the houses. The vhenadahl…"

"I know," he said. "I saw it."

"What do they want?"

"Everything."

Slowly, she nodded. Her head tilted, and she looked past him. "You've got your pretty blond friend with you."

"You know," Darrian said. "I'm beginning to think you like seeing him more than me."

"Never." She shot a level, unwavering glance at Zevran. "Look after him."

"Always, my dear," Zevran answered, and his hand brushed Darrian's shoulder. "He is, after all, nearly as easy on the eyes as I am."

She laughed. "Be careful?"

"Look after Father," Darrian replied.

"And Soris. I know. I will."

"Not on your own," he said, and gently untangled himself from the tight clasp of her arms. "Wynne, I need you to stay here. You and Leliana."

Wynne's head lifted. "You're certain?"

"I think so. Yes. Get everyone moved. Find an empty house, anything you can hide in. Keep them alive."

Alistair swung his shield onto his shoulders. "Really?"

"You're really asking that? Or did you want a city with no subjects left?"

"That's not," Alistair snapped, and stopped. Beneath the grime and the ribbons of sweat, his face was bloodless. "Fine. You're right."

"Alistair," Darrian began.

"No. You're right and we need to go, yes?"

He swallowed. The inside of his mouth felt sandy and thick. Another breath filled his throat with the acrid sting of smoke. "Yes," he said, and turned away.

* * *

><p>Zevran stared down at the river and watched the coppery play of the flames, trapped in the water. He was filthy, his hair hanging in sodden handfuls and his leathers all scuffed and dirty, blood welling through the ugly scrape on his calf. He ran his tongue along lips that were dry and cracked and wondered again how long this day might last.<p>

_This strange day all full of fire and broken stone and the trampling sounds of the darkspawn. _

"Here," Alistair murmured, and pressed a waterskin into his hands.

Zevran nodded wordlessly. The water was too warm and he swallowed too quickly until his throat thickened.

On his other side, Darrian sat rigid and impatient, staring up at the red sky. Reluctantly, Zevran followed his Warden's gaze until he saw it again, the great dark shape of the dragon as it spun and twisted between the high, spearing towers of the fortress.

The thing was an archdemon and had come up out of the earth and he knew his Warden wanted to _find_ it.

_Had_ to find it, and he leaned the side of his head against Darrian's shoulder. A dragon, he thought, and shoved aside the awful urge to laugh. A dragon that was vast and relentless and uselessly he wondered if the point of his dagger could even be worked through the thing's skin.

"Riordan," Alistair said, very quietly.

"I don't know," Darrian answered. "I don't...either way we need to get to Fort Drakon."

When Darrian ordered them on again, Zevran kept pace beside him. Slowly and cautiously, they worked their way between burning houses and past spills of shattered glass and broken wood and always the dead. This was not the quick elegance Zevran had been taught, the driving livid line of a dagger sheathed in poison. This was too much and too many and when he thought of them all, the knot in his stomach tightened.

_The open casements let in the afternoon warmth and the heady scent of the purple flowers that twined down the wall outside. Zevran watched as the merchant poured wine. The sunlight caught against the man's rings, against the bright thread that gleamed across his cuffs. He accepted the wine, and slowly he let his fingers brush against the merchant's. _

_The merchant enjoyed elves, his master had told him. Beautiful elves, his master had said, and given him another speculative, hungry look. _

_The merchant was to be killed before the daylight fled, and as soon as the merchant's dark-eyed gaze had raked over him, Zevran knew how it would be done. It would begin with pleasure and end with death. He let the warmth of the wine flood across his tongue. The merchant asked him things, foolish and inconsequential, and he lied until the merchant laughed. _

_It did not take long, and when the merchant's hands slipped into his hair, he turned so he could slant his mouth over the merchant's. The man tasted the same as the wine, rich and dark and heady. He had the merchant's robes off quickly, belt and boots and shirt and breeches afterwards. Dark skin beneath his hands, and he took his time, smoothing his palms down the man's chest, breathing in the scent of him. The merchant's fingers played over the pointed tips of his ears._

_He ended up shirtless and on his knees while the merchant thrust hard into his mouth. He tipped his head back and opened his throat and felt it as the merchant shuddered, already close. Almost absently, he eased his hand into his breeches and stroked himself into a matching rhythm. _

_The merchant liked to watch, his master had said. So as the merchant climaxed, Zevran met his drowsy, satisfied gaze as he swallowed. He brought himself to his own peak and he let his head tilt and his back arch and through half-closed eyes he saw how the man was still watching him. Lazily, he uncoiled to his feet. _

"_Very nice," the merchant said, almost breathlessly. "Perhaps we should get you out of the rest of your clothes and onto the bed." _

"_Yes, perhaps we should," Zevran murmured. As languidly, he turned, sliding one arm around the man's neck. His fingers ghosted over sweat and hot skin and gently, he turned the merchant so that the man's back was against his chest. Another movement, as casual, unhooked the tiny knife his master had insisted he keep, sheathed and hidden in a small pocket along the inside of his thigh. He kissed the nape of the merchant's neck and raked the blade across his throat and held on as the man swayed. He closed his hand over the merchant's mouth and waited out the merchant's silent convulsion. _

_Carefully, he lowered the man to the floor and rolled him over. Dark skin all gleaming with sweat and still the man smelled of the wine and their pleasure. He lingered until he was certain the man was dead, certain the poison had worked through his body. Briefly, he pushed his hand through the man's loose dark hair until his fingers bumped against the man's earring, small and golden and beautiful. _

Steep stone steps led up to the fortress gates, and Zevran remembered the last time he had darted up them, Oghren beside him and his own shoulders trembling beneath borrowed red silk.

Beside him, Darrian pressed on at a grueling pace, and Zevran hurried to keep up until the muscles in his legs throbbed. He was vaguely aware of the sweat that slicked his lips and the dog jolting up the steps on his heels and Alistair shouting something from below them. He trailed Darrian through the half-open doors, and the reek of too much shed blood assailed him. He swallowed hard, and when Darrian hurtled away from him, already making for the next set of doors, he snarled, "_Slow_ down. _Now_."

Darrian glared back at him, his blue eyes on fire amid the white angles of his face. "It's _here_."

"He's right," Alistair said, as he shouldered through the door behind them. "It's been waiting for us."

Zevran nodded. His heart was thudding too fast. Before he let himself think too much, he grabbed Darrian's arm and snapped, "Then before we march out and into certain death, _come here_."

Before his Warden could respond, he steered him away from the others and the doors and ground out, "You and I both know that you are being foolish. You are _running_ instead of fighting, and the _only_ reason you have not had yourself skewered yet is because _I_ have been covering you."

"Yes, but…"

"Yes, nothing." Merciless, Zevran dragged him closer. "If you are to live through this, you must _think_."

"No, Zev, listen…"

"No, you listen." Fiercely, the truth spilled from his tongue, rough and painful and wrenching. "I know it is in your head and I know it hurts. I will be with you."

"Zev," Darrian mumbled, and pressed his forehead to Zevran's. "Zev," he said again, against Zevran's lips. "Love you."

He tried to form the words. He tried to repeat them, tried to whisper them back into Darrian's mouth. "My Warden," he said, and the ache in his chest did not give way. "I am with you."

* * *

><p>The song in his head was like the surging pull of the sea against the wharves. With every step through the fortress, the taut, prickling excitement in his belly knotted. Even here, where the walls were red and the air tasted stale, the darkspawn waited. Morrigan's spells flared bright and sharp and drove them from the small rooms they huddled in.<p>

With Zevran matching every stroke of his sword, he threw himself at them until his shoulders trembled. On his other side, Alistair fought with the same punishing desperation, his shield thudding full-bore into a tall darkspawn and sending it toppling.

"The door," Alistair shouted over the clamour. "Darrian, the door!"

The door that would take him back out into the open, and he would see it, _properly_ see it. He could feel it, the buzzing, heady awareness of it as it whispered to its darkspawn and whispered to him.

He wondered how close he might get himself to it before it killed him.

He threw himself past the scything blur of a darkspawn's axe. He landed too heavily and swore when he staggered. His clumsy hesitation cost him, and the haft of the axe drove him back another pace. He whirled, angling his sword up under the darkspawn's arm and into the meat of its flank. He ripped the blade free and kept moving, clearing the distance to the door.

Shoulder-first, he ploughed into the door and heaved it open. Acrid air hit the back of his throat first, and something metallic, and the sudden, wrenching taste of his own fear.

Zevran caught his arm. "Slowly," the assassin urged breathlessly. "Slowly."

The fortress rooftop was thronged with soldiers, and somewhere nearby, mages stood in a braced phalanx and called spells in unison. Overhead, the dome of the sky was scarlet. He waited, every nerve screaming, until the others were through the door behind him. He made himself note the elven scouts, in lines behind Arl Eamon's soldiers.

_How long_, he wondered. _How long had they stood here, how long had they held the fortress _just_ because Riordan suggested it? _

"Alright," he said, strained. "Alistair, I need…"

_Vast and great and cut from the cloth of darkness itself and it was rising up against the red sky. _

Dreamlike, he watched it. He watched it as its wings flared and bunched and flared again until it was close, too close, filling the air with its song.

Zevran cannoned into him. "Down, _now!_"

His knees cracked hard against stone. He held on, hunched over as the space above his head turned inky and crackled with the dragon's dark fire. He could feel the glass pendant, icy against his skin, trapped inside his shirt.

"Alistair," he shouted.

"I know," the man responded, and rolled back up to his feet.

Shield raised, the dog keeping pace beside him, Alistair bolted across the open stone. When he reached Eamon's soldiers, Darrian let himself relax slightly. He heard Alistair's first yelled order, to _keep together, start firing, push the dragon back_.

A volley of arrows filled the hot air, and another and another, and from the other side, the mages called up a whirling white column of energy. The dragon twisted, huge claws lifting up and off the stone. The wings unfurled, and the sudden buffeting gust made Darrian stagger. Somewhere behind, he heard Alistair scream for the ballistas to be fired, _all of them_.

He ran again, his breath coming uneven and ragged in his throat. He hurled himself behind an edge of broken stone, pressed his shoulders against it until they stopped shaking. Beside him, as sweat-soaked, as filthy, Zevran grinned.

"You know," Darrian muttered beneath the din of sheeting arrows. "You're crazy."

The dragon reared up and spun and the thick weight of its tail raked the air. The spined end smacked hard into the stone, and Darrian cringed at the impact. He needed to get nearer, much nearer, but when the dragon's tail whipped against the stone again, he recoiled.

_The rim of the cup bumped against his teeth. The tiredness was threatening to wash over him again, bone-deep. Somehow he tilted the cup and the blood ran into his mouth. He tried to breathe, tried to gasp something past it as it filled his throat. He tried to speak, tried to reach for Alistair, for Duncan, for the stone column he _knew_ was just behind him. _

_He tried to speak, and something else was there, something that swelled up inside his thoughts and his heart and made every part of him ring with its beautiful song. _

Trailing white sparks, a spell sheared over his head, cold enough that it made him gasp. He heard the hissing impact and the dragon's answering scream. Frantic, he threw himself up and around and froze when he realised how close it was.

_Above him and around him and stretching the vast black web of its wings. _

A hail of arrows rattled against the its wings, and it twisted away. Another spell seared along the ridge of its back, burrowing beneath thick scales. The claws dropped and gouged against the stone, and some terrible, absurd part of his mind noticed how long they were. More arrows flew, whipping past his shoulders and embedding in the dragon's neck. Its head turned, and dark fire streamed from its mouth.

_Over his head_, he realised, _far over his head, and searing down on the soldiers far behind. _

The dragon's head dipped, and its fierce burning eyes looked into him.

_Out of the dark warmth of the earth, it had come up out of the earth, and it had called to the darkspawn as they crawled through their tunnels. It had called them out of their blindness and taken them up and it could feel the same blood in him, their blood, the darkspawn blood. He would become the dragon's, and so would the others, one after another until the dragon was sated. _

Some blistering white spell drove into the arch of the dragon's wing. The dragon twisted, one huge set of claws lifting. The wings swept up, and Darrian realised that it was going to launch itself into the air again.

_No_, he thought, and wildly, he flung himself forward. He shouted something, wordless and useless. A dozen arrows whined past the edge of its unfurled wing. He shouted again, his tongue sliding dry and painful against his teeth.

The dragon's jaws opened, and the dark fire blazed. He dived away from it, staggering when he tried to regain his balance. The dragon's claws bit into the stone beside him, and desperately he kept moving. Something heavy cracked hard against his shoulder. He felt the wet heat of his own blood. The dragon's wings rippled and curled, and Darrian was in the darkness of them again, looking up and into the dragon's eyes. Serpent-fast, the head arced down, and wildly he swung up with his sword until the blade jarred against its teeth. Another panicked stroke sliced a long red line across bristling scales.

The dragon's neck twisted, and madly he rolled beneath it until he could _feel_ it above him, the ferocious weight of it and the slow pulse of its heart.

Braced on his knees, he drove his sword up and into the underside of the dragon's jaw and the song in his head stopped.


	16. Silences

__As always, a very big thank-you to everyone who's following this story - we're almost there, a little way more to go. As usual, Bioware owns nearly everything, and reviews are always welcome. _**  
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_**Chapter Sixteen – Silences**_

Zevran stirred, and the unsteady breath he took tasted of ash and heat. He forced open sticky eyelids and realised he was lying half on his back, half on some sharp leathery part of the dragon's wing. He shuddered, and carefully rolled himself up to his knees. The movement made his head spin. He waited, teeth clenched, until the dizziness subsided. Beneath his leathers his shoulder and his hip throbbed, and he felt the hot, wet slide of blood down the back of one thigh.

He remembered the dragon, and how it had risen up behind his Warden, and his stomach roiled. _Darrian_, he thought, and turned, but still he could not see his Warden. The smoke stung his eyes and his throat and his voice was rough when he shouted Darrian's name.

He turned again, and desperately he lunged past the fallen blocks and the edge of the dragon's wing.

His Warden lay there, face down and hands splayed. The dragon's fallen bulk sprawled across the stone around him, the serpentine twists of its tail and its neck coiling through the glossy spill of its own blood.

"Darrian?"

He grasped Darrian's shoulder and wrenched him over. His Warden's face was ashen, mouth slack and eyes closed.

Darrian had stood there, stood there with his sword buried in the dragon's jaw, _stood there_ while the dragon crumpled. The dragon's wings had come sheeting in and folding up and Zevran had lost sight of him and the stone beneath had _shaken_ as the dragon fell.

"No, my Warden. Breathe. Come on, you have to breathe for me. Breathe." He was babbling and he knew it and he did not care as he pressed trembling fingers against Darrian's lips. Somehow he worked his arms under Darrian's shoulders and pulled him against his chest. His knees gave way again, and he sat there, Darrian a heavy, unmoving weight in his arms.

Panic unfurled in his gut and he pushed it down. He pushed it down with all the icy detachment he had been taught. He tried to steady himself, tried to will himself calm, but his breathing was still coming in huge uneven gasps.

"Come on," Zevran said again. He worked his Warden's mouth open with one hand while his other scrabbled at the collar of his leathers. He yanked and twisted and finally he reached in and beneath the sweat-soaked shirt. His fingertips brushed the faintest ripple of a pulse, and weak relief broke through him.

"Zevran?"

He ignored the voice and busied himself unfastening Darrian's leathers. He loosened ties and clasps and rested Darrian's head in the crook of his elbow. "Keep breathing," he murmured. He tugged his gloves off and threaded shaking fingers through his Warden's unkempt black hair. "Just keep breathing."

"_Zevran_."

Alistair, he realised. He heard the thud as the man dropped to his knees somewhere close by.

"Maker, Zevran. Is he..?"

"He's cold," Zevran said, and the words threatened to choke him.

"Zevran," Alistair said, in the same exhausted tone. One big, clumsy human hand clamped over his shoulder.

"He's breathing. I can feel him breathing. His pulse is shallow and too slow."

"Alright. Then we need to get him down off this tower and somewhere safer, yes?"

The sensible half of his mind knew that, of course he did, but he also knew it would mean letting go of his Warden. "Yes," he answered thickly. "Yes."

"Let me help you. Let me carry him."

Damn the man, he _knew_ that would be his offer. "No, I…"

"I'm taller than you and I'm stronger than you," Alistair said firmly. "You can have him as soon as we get somewhere safer, I promise."

Zevran nodded then, eventually, and somehow he turned so he could tip Darrian carefully into the broad clasp of the man's arms. He did not want to watch it, his Warden all grey-faced and boneless, so he prowled ahead of them. Every hurried breath he took reeked of death and spilled blood and smoke. He ignored the soldiers who stared and gaped and shouted questions. The dog nosed at his palm, and Zevran dug his fingers through the soft fur and did not let go.

At the gates he found Wynne, kneeling beside Leliana and with both hands cupped over the bard's bleeding shoulder.

"Wynne," he snapped out.

The healing spell glowed and buried itself in the bard's shoulder. As elegantly, the mage straightened up. She looked at Zevran first, and then past him, and he saw it as she faltered.

"No," Wynne murmured. "Zevran?"

"Can you do anything?" He swallowed. His throat felt packed with sand. "He's not, I mean, he's alive, he's breathing, but only barely."

"Lie him down," she said briskly.

Alistair obeyed, and instants later, Zevran was there, lifting Darrian's head and shoulders onto his lap. He knotted his fingers in his Warden's hair while the mage spun some pale spell between her hands. He waited and he did not let himself look away until the mage was sheened with sweat, her hands trembling.

"That's it?" he demanded. "He's not moving."

"Zevran," the mage said, very gently. "I can take his clothes off and patch up his wounds, but I think that should be done somewhere cleaner and safer. There are still darkspawn in the city."

"Then we get him out of the city," Zevran snapped.

"No," Alistair said, in the same soft tone. "I'll have Eamon's men clear his estate. We can take him there."

"And if he dies before that?"

"Zevran." Wynne clasped his wrist with cool fingers. "I am not going to lie to you. We need to move him."

"Come on," Alistair said. "Zevran. Please."

He stared down at Darrian's hair, fanning through his hands like black ink. _It should have been over_, he thought, and the needling fear tugged at his belly again. The dragon was down and it should have been over and should have ended with his Warden on his feet and smiling.

"Zevran."

"Yes," he said, too quickly. "Alright."

* * *

><p>Beside Alistair, the Antivan elf was rigid, his footsteps sure and predatory as they wove their way through the empty marketplace. More than a few times, they hazed darkspawn out of alcoves and alleyways, and the elf fought with wild, vicious desperation. Alistair found himself hurrying to match the elf's pace, and often, his shield swung in to keep the elf covered. They discovered the estate almost empty of darkspawn, and the contingent of Eamon's soldiers trailing them cleared the stables and the cellars.<p>

"They're leaving," Alistair said wearily. "I guess with no archdemon to tell them what to do, they're just going."

"Then kill them before they do," Zevran snarled.

Alistair bit at the inside of his cheek. The elf was hurting, he _knew _the elf was hurting. He could see it in the bloodless line of the elf's mouth and his rigid shoulders and his awful, sallow pallor. Even so, he wanted to growl back at the elf that _he_ was afraid for Darrian as well, because the other Warden was his friend, and he had seen it too, seen it as the dragon came toppling down.

Inside, he checked the corridors and the chamber again, and briskly sent a scout back to tell Wynne it was as safe as it was likely to be. He waited, his shoulders tense and prickling, and tried not to watch as the elf paced, his heels snapping hard against the floor.

He made himself stay silent until the mage appeared at the door, two soldiers behind her, and Darrian balanced carefully between them.

He had felt it, the strange twisting shudder as the archdemon crumpled. The keening song cutting off and the dragon's jaws closing and its whole body rippling and falling.

_What had it been like_, he wondered. _What had it been like to stand beneath it as it died? _

"Wynne," he said, and his voice came out sandy and tired. "Need anything else?"

"No, thank you." Beneath the white fall of her hair, the mage was pale and pinched, and when she beckoned the soldiers into the chamber behind her, her hands shook.

He glanced down at Zevran. "I'm not going to be much help here. I'll be outside. Killing darkspawn."

The elf's head lifted. "If the witch lied," Zevran hissed. "If he does not wake, I will find her and I will kill her and you will _not_ stop me."

Alistair raised both hands. "No. No, I mean…no."

The elf whirled, all venomous energy and coin-bright hair. Alistair watched him for a wrenching, worried moment. "Zevran?"

"Yes, what?"

"He'll be alright."

"You know this, do you?"

Alistair tried to hold the elf's gaze and failed. "No," he said. "I don't. I just hope he will be."

* * *

><p>Zevran made himself watch as the mage dismissed the soldiers and knelt beside the bed. She peeled his Warden's leathers aside and turned careful, scrutinizing attention to the blood that showed through in bright patches. His shoulder must be the worst, Zevran thought, his shirt all reduced to sodden wrinkles.<p>

"Zevran," Wynne said, softly. "Will you help me?"

He nodded, and found a pitcher, and together they eased Darrian's clothes off. Slowly and carefully, and with Zevran tipping the pitcher over Wynne's cupped hands so she could dampen the blood-crusted fabric. Zevran crouched beside her until the muscles in his legs complained, and even then, he hovered at her shoulder.

On the sheets, his Warden seemed small, diminished somehow, reduced to this terrible spill of white limbs and black hair and dark bruises and ribbons of blood.

He waited and waited while the mage called up her spells, and he saw how they sank buzzing and livid under his Warden's skin. Afterwards, after a thin, delicate needle scribed a half-circle of stitches across his Warden's shoulder, and another closed up the leaking gash on his leg, he wrung out the another cloth and mopped the last of the blood away.

"Zevran," Wynne said. "What about you?"

"I am fine. I need sleep. That is all."

"You're still bleeding. Let me see?"

He considered sniping back at her, but her hands caught his arm, lifting and tilting until she could see the long gouge that ran beneath his wrist.

"This is filthy," she told him briskly. "Clean yourself up and I'll have a proper look."

Wordlessly, he obeyed. He felt the weight of her gaze on him and even when he scrabbled madly for a suitably lewd retort, he could not dredge up the words. He scrubbed at his wrist until it stung, and she caught his arm again.

"Stop," Wynne said. "Zevran. Stop."

"I am fine."

Silently, she spread her fingers over the wound, and he shuddered when he felt the soft, warm surge of the spell. She did the same for the longer gash on his leg, and the dull, thumping pain subsided.

"Thank you," he said.

She smiled. "You'll be staying with him tonight?"

"Yes."

"He's breathing steadily, and he should wake on his own. If anything changes, or if you're unsure of anything, find me."

"Injuries?"

"He's lost a lot of blood. He needs time, and rest."

"That's all?" Zevran asked, and the words caught on his tongue, thick and awkward and painful.

Wynne touched the back of his hand. "You need rest as well."

He nodded mutely again. After she left, the door clicking closed on her heels, he turned and pulled the sheets up to his Warden's waist. He looked at the pendent, dark and gleaming against his Warden's pale skin. He curled his fingers against his palms.

At the far end of the corridor outside he found a man clad in the arl's colours. He demanded wine and candles and firewood and fifteen steps took him back into the silence of the room.

_Silence_, muffling and heavy, and he could do nothing.

He waited, barefoot and shirtless, folding the end of the sheet between his fingers. The servants came and went, mercifully quiet, and the heat from the fireplace seeped into him until some of the tension bled from his shoulders. He poured a cup of wine, and then another, and a third, until his mind was an ugly, exhausted mess, thoughts swimming against each other until the inside of his eyelids burned.

Eventually, worn out, he flung himself full-length on top of the covers beside his Warden. Blindly he reached for Darrian's cold, unresponsive hand. For a long time he lay there, watching the fluttering flames and trying not to listen to his Warden's uneven, shallow breathing.

* * *

><p>Morning brought daylight lancing in between the curtains, and no change in his Warden. Zevran rolled over and raised a hand to cut the vicious glare of the sun. He sat up too quickly, and his head whirled. The inside of his mouth still tasted of sweet white wine and smoke and his own sweat.<p>

He managed to rake through last night's ashes in the fireplace and swallow down most of the contents of the water pitcher before he looked at his Warden again.

The slow turn of the sunlight across the plush rugs brought Wynne and her quiet assurance that no, nothing had changed, at least not for the worse, and there was little else for him to worry over. Viper-quick, he snarled something vicious at her, and she caught his hand and held onto him.

"I don't," Zevran said. "I don't know what to do."

"I know," she said.

As gently, she let him go, and he curled himself in the windowseat until he heard footsteps, rapid and uneven, and a guard's gruff voice. A door swung open, and a woman snapped, "He's my _cousin_."

Zevran allowed himself a small smile. He was at the door and opening it before he could think better of it. He grinned at the tall guard and said, "She _is_ the Warden's cousin, and you will let her in. Now."

The man nodded, faintly flushed. "As you say."

Shianni shoved her way between the guards and into the room. She waited, hands twisting together while Zevran closed the door again.

"I couldn't stay outside," she said. "Not when they told me."

"No," Zevran agreed. He made his way back to the small table. "Wine?"

"Thank you."

He nodded. He filled a glass for her and when he passed it across, he paused long enough to study her. She was small and thin beneath her blue tunic, and she would have been beautiful, he thought, if the desperate worry in her was not turning her eyes glassy and her shoulders rigid. He studied the sharp pale angles of her face and saw Darrian in her, _ever so slightly_, in the steep lift of her cheekbones and the stubborn jut of her chin. Her eyes were green, and softer than her cousin's, and her hair was shorter and the bright copper of new coins, but even so, the resemblance stayed.

"Stop staring at me," she said, mildly.

"Forgive me, my dear. Sit down."

She had still not looked across to the bed, not yet, and part of him understood. She wished to be distracted, he supposed, so he beckoned her across to the windowseat.

"Are you older than your cousin?"

"No. Soris is the oldest, then Darrian, then me."

"You are quite considerably the most lovely," Zevran said, and grinned.

"Says he who is sleeping with my cousin? Nice," she retorted. The corners of her mouth moved. "Is he…I mean, is he alright?"

"He's alive. He's breathing."

She nodded slowly. Her fingers tightened around the glass again. "It was the dragon."

"Yes."

"Did you see it?"

"Far more closely than I'd ever hoped."

She smiled slightly. "Look, I didn't…I just wanted to see that he was alright. You know what I mean."

"Yes," Zevran said, honestly. "I do."

"Will you tell me how you met him?"

"I tried to kill him, he stabbed me in the chest in the ensuing and most spectacular fight, and for some strange reason he let me live. After that, it was simply a matter of getting him to succumb to my not inconsiderable charms."

Shianni spluttered into a laugh. "Liar."

"Not the first part," he said, thoughtfully. "Or the part about stabbing me in the chest and letting me live."

"Really?"

"It was business, I the one tasked to achieve it, and he the target."

"And here I was hoping for some sordid tale about some seedy inn somewhere."

"Nothing quite so squalid, I assure you." He summoned a smile, and added, "I can show you the scar he left me, if you wish it."

"Oh, no, feel free to stay dressed," Shianni said. "I'm suitably impressed anyway. Zevran?"

"Yes?"

She drained the last inch of the wine. "Let me know if, well. Anything."

"Of course," Zevran said.

When she stood, he offered his arm to escort her to the corridor, and she laughed at him again, the same pained glass-edged laughter. Her fingers juddered against his sleeve, and for a long time after he closed the door again, he thought of how Darrian had seen her, seen her carved of nothing more than air and bitterness and the cold, in the mountains behind Haven.

But it had not been her, and he knew that, knew how it had been nothing more than the Gauntlet's conjurings, as much as the armoured Guardian had been.

_"Her name. Her name stays with you, Antivan."_

_ "_Yes_," he spat, and ignored the sudden, startled look the Warden shot at him. "Yes, if you want to know if I regret it, I do. If I would have done things differently, I would. Now move on with your questions and leave me be." _

_ And afterwards, in the ice-sheened passageways, Darrian had grabbed his wrist. _

_ "I don't know what he was asking you," the Warden said. His eyes flickered, blue and shadowed and never once meeting Zevran's. "I don't know…I just, if you want to talk about it, or anything. Something."_

_ "Anything?" he repeated, the word sardonic and tired. _

_ "Talking," Darrian said, and smiled slightly. "And I didn't like it either." _

* * *

><p>He was drifting, drifting somewhere grey. There had been dreams, or at least he had thought they were dreams, shifting colours and bright circles that rose and burst across his eyes. There was the strange dull echo of pain somewhere deep within, and the nagging feeling that he should <em>remember<em> something.

Something he had done, or something he had seen.

He did remember the vhenadahl, and the stupid, adventurous time he and Soris had tried to scale the rooftops opposite, to stand across from the curling green branches.

Someone's hands on his, and someone touching his chest, or touching the chill weight of something that lay against his chest.

_The pendant_, he thought idly, and tried to curl over again. One of his hands caught in bunched fabric, and the other brushed across something solid and warm. The pendant stayed cold against his skin, and he wondered if he should take it off. He fumbled for it, and his fingers slid across delicate silver chain and smooth glass.

There was blood in the pendant, he recalled, blood taken and trapped and blazing with the song.

_The dragon_, he thought, and he remembered, remembered it all.

Frantically, he shoved himself upright. Sunlight hit his eyes first, punishingly bright. Someone's arms on his shoulders, sliding around his waist, and someone's voice in his ear, brokenly murmuring his name.

"Darrian. It's me. My Warden, you're with me. You're _with me_."

"Zevran," he said eventually. "_Oh_. You're alright. You're alright?"

"_I'm_ alright?" Zevran laughed, and the wonderful warmth of his body cleaved against Darrian's, one hand slipping down the outside of his thigh. "Yes. I am alright."

For a long, marveling moment, he let himself stay there, his face turned into the pillow and Zevran's heartbeat a thudding tempo against his back. "We're both here."

He felt the assassin's gasping laugh against the nape of his neck, and he caught the assassin's hand between both of his. "Been here long?" he asked.

Zevran moved, pushing him down and rolling on top of him, hands carding through his hair. As desperately, the assassin kissed him until they were both breathless.

"You taste," Zevran murmured. "Absolutely awful."

Darrian laughed. "I have been in bed for a while, I guess."

"Three days."

He stilled. "Three days."

"Mmm," Zevran said in agreement. He kissed his way along Darrian's jaw and down to his throat. "So, you will sit pretty here while I fetch us some hot water and then we will begin the important business of making you clean."

"_You_ will fetch water?"

"Well, no, I will find servants who will do this for me. Did you take me for your slave now that you've killed an archdemon, hmm?" He pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of Darrian's mouth. "Do not go anywhere."

Darrian smiled and watched as the assassin hopped off the bed and darted out through the door, a flaxen-haired blur. He slumped back onto the pillows and waited, drifting somewhere close to sleep. He jolted properly awake again when the door closed.

"Mmm, yes," he mumbled. "What?"

"You sleep for three days and are still tired? My Warden, I am disappointed in you." Zevran grinned at him through the steam rising off the tub. The assassin had one sleeve rolled up and his hand swirling beneath the water. "It's very hot."

Darrian returned the grin and shucked the sheets away. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and swayed horribly when he pushed upright. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep moving, and the whole room spun around him.

"No, my Warden," Zevran said, and Darrian wondered how he had managed to move so quickly. "I have you. Try again."

He leaned against Zevran, terribly aware of how awkwardly he was moving. The assassin said nothing, only kept one arm looped around his waist and the other wrapped around his shoulder. While Darrian gripped the side of the tub, Zevran deftly unfastened his loose breeches and rolled them down.

"No smallclothes," Darrian murmured. "Was that your idea?"

"_My_ idea? Scandalous," Zevran retorted, and ran one hand up the inside of his thigh. "I was merely trying to make you comfortable."

Darrian sighed out a laugh. Relying far too much on the cradling weight of the assassin's arm, he clambered into the water. He sank into the enveloping heat and closed his eyes. For far too long he lay there, half-buried beneath the water, Zevran's hand on his arm, and the assassin's forehead against his temple. Eventually he moved, shifting forward, and the sudden twinge in his shoulder made him groan.

"Gently," Zevran admonished. "You lost a great deal of blood."

He nodded, and the motion made him dizzy again. He held on, teeth clenched and his head pressed against the crook of Zevran's shoulder. "The others?"

"Fine."

"Alistair?"

"Alistair is fine," Zevran said. "Shianni was in here earlier."

He covered his face with both hands, and his gulping laugh turned into a wracking shudder. "Really?"

"Yes, really. It seems that you've been missed."

"Seems?"

"No," Zevran said, and pressed a kiss to the damp angle of his cheekbone. "Very much missed. Now lie back. You still smell of dead dragon."

He obeyed, and later, Zevran steered him back to the bed swathed in towels. As silently, the assassin patted him dry, lingering over his hair and his throat and his chest.

"Zev?"

"See?" the assassin said, and smoothed the towel across Darrian's stomach. "I was right. You are royally tough to kill."

"Let's not test that. Ever again."

"No? And yet you are the one who threw yourself with wild abandon at an archdemon."

"Yes, thank you."

"I did for one moment wonder if you would try and beat it into submission using only your head, perhaps."

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"Shut up."

The assassin smiled. "Really?"

"No," Darrian said, and urgently, he turned into Zevran's arms. His hands clawed and scrambled up Zevran's back until they were wrapped around each other.

Zevran touched his cheeks, his chin, the slope of his neck. "I never thought that even _you_ could be so pale," the assassin murmured. "You're certain you're still alive, my Warden?"

"I think so."

"Do you remember it?"

"Oh yes," he said. He leaned his forehead against Zevran's. "I remember it above me. I remember the sword going into it, and then it fell."

"And you tried to catch it."

"The sword?"

"The dragon," the assassin said, and nipped at the side of his neck.

"It…happened fast. I'm sorry, I didn't…I didn't know what to do."

"Oh, hush, my Warden," the assassin told him, and as tenderly, he threaded his hand through Darrian's hair, over the pointed tip of his ear and down to the tiny golden gleam of the earring. "You'll be suffering terrible dragon jokes for _years_, I assure you. It's the very least I can do."

"Nice," Darrian retorted.

The silence stretched between them again, tentative and impatient. Darrian occupied himself with tracing Zevran's collarbones, and the twisting dark tattoos that curled along his side. He lifted Zevran's chin and murmured, "You were worried."

"Worried? Me? For an instant, my Warden. Half an instant."

"That long?" Darrian smiled, and it wavered. The silly, mocking words he wanted would not come, and his throat felt suddenly too thick. He looked at Zevran until it seemed that the sharp, beautiful angles of the assassin's face were blurring, until Zevran's thumbs brushed the corners of his eyes.

Zevran burrowed against him, his head nestling against Darrian's chest. Darrian stroked the back of his head, the loose fall of his golden hair. "What are you doing?"

"Listening to your heart," the assassin said, very softly. He fanned his hand out over Darrian's breastbone. "You were very nearly gone, my Warden. I would prefer not to feel that again. Not for some time, at least."

"Zev."

"No, my Warden. There is nothing to say. Let me hold you."

He turned into the warm circle of Zevran's arms, and they lay there together in the sunlit silence.

* * *

><p>Alistair glared at the unfurled parchment, and when the spidery, jagging letters did not resolve into anything more useful, he sighed. He rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand and considered wasting enough time to duck down the corridor and raid the arl's kitchens again.<p>

Slouched in front of the hearth, the mabari lifted his head and huffed.

"You're a harsh master," Alistair muttered in reply. He blinked at the parchment again and let the quill fall. His eyes felt gritty, and he wondered if he should try to sleep.

The first night after the dragon fell he had spent in the streets of Denerim, the dog and Oghren with him, and Eamon's soldiers flanking them, and they had pushed darkspawn out of narrow alleyways and through avenues until they died beneath volleys of arrows. They were clumsy, now, the darkspawn, disordered and confused, and they bolted in ragged packs when the scouts flushed them from their shadowed hiding spots.

The second night, he had fallen asleep in his chair and jolted awake before dawn, sweat on his lips and wondering why his heart was racing. Wynne informed him that Darrian still slept, and somehow, he turned his attention to the city, and the grisly business of clearing away the dead. The third night he had slept better, and he had woken light-headed with the odd knowledge that his startling, awful nightmare had been the product of his own thoughts, and no song sent by the archdemon. He could still feel them in the city, the darkspawn, as they ran, but they were whispers, whispers that prickled along the edge of his awareness, and they did not hurt.

He reached for the next incomprehensible list and dropped it as fast when he heard a knock at the door.

He was almost surprised when the Antivan assassin stepped over the threshold, his shoulders trim beneath the clean folds of a new shirt.

"Zevran? Is everything alright?"

"He's awake," the elf said, and the words seemed to rush out on top of each other, breathlessly.

"Oh," Alistair said, uselessly. The relief washed through him, almost numbing, until he let himself smile. "Oh. Good."

"He woke this afternoon," Zevran said. His head tilted. "What are you doing?"

"Apparently being king means looking at far too many lists. Scouts, soldiers. People who are alive. People who aren't. The city's still in bad shape, and I have men out there every day getting rid of the last of the darkspawn. It'll take a while." He shook his head. "And you certainly aren't interested in that, I'm sure. Sorry."

The elf smiled, and it was light, neither edged nor shadowed. "I shall leave you to your far too many lists, then. I…simply thought you would want to know. That he's alright."

"Yes. Yes, I did. Thank you." He stared down at the parchment, rippling beneath the play of the candlelight. "I'll see him in the morning. Zevran?"

"Yes?"

"Morrigan's gone."

"Ah." Something in the elf's poise changed. "You are certain?"

"Unless she's hiding under a pile of debris in the city somewhere," Alistair said, and shrugged. "The day before yesterday was the last time I saw her. She could be anywhere now."

"You trust that neither she nor the child will trouble you?"

"I don't know." He leaned back in the chair. "In a way, her being gone at least means I don't have to _see_ it and wonder about it. Her. The child. You know what I mean."

"Yes," the elf conceded. "I do know what you mean."

"Well, go on," Alistair said, and grinned tiredly. "I'm sure you have more important things to be doing than standing around in here. And don't you dare comment on _anything_ I just said."

"Would I?"

"You would. Zevran?"

Half-turning, the elf paused. "Yes?"

Alistair hesitated. "Is he…is he alright? Actually alright?"

"He thought he was going to die, and yet he did not," the elf said, and his voice was unreadable. "It is most strange to realise such a thing."


	17. Words

_As always, the biggest thank-you to everyone who's following this story, reviewing or has it on favourites or alerts, and anonymous reviewers whom I cannot thank directly. This is the penultimate chapter, a little shorter than most of the others, with enough room left for an epilogue/final chapter. Bioware owns nearly everything. Reviews are always welcome.  
><em>

_**Chapter Seventeen: Words**_

Darrian surfaced from dreamless sleep. Slowly, he became aware of the assassin who was coiled around him, one leg over his hip and an arm around his waist. Lazily, he let his fingers play through Zevran's hair. The assassin sighed something and burrowed closer, his head nestling beneath the crook of Darrian's shoulder. He ran his thumb beneath the slant of Zevran's jaw, and the assassin smiled and nuzzled into his hand.

"Are you _always_ awake before me?" he asked, slightly affronted.

"Always, my Warden."

"Any particular reason?"

"I'm an assassin."

"Right."

"You make a decidedly delightful pillow regardless, my Warden," Zevran said. "Do not fret."

He combed his fingers through Zevran's hair, parting and stroking the golden strands until they gleamed. With the same indolent tenderness, he skimmed his fingers down the assassin's shoulderblades, over the ridge of bone and bands of muscle beneath. He found the rough indentations of old scars, and murmured, "How did you get these?"

"Exactly the way it seems," Zevran answered, and kissed Darrian's breastbone. "I was given a task, and I performed poorly, and my master punished me."

"I'm sorry."

"Do not be. It was long ago, and besides, I probably deserved it. I was particularly cocky the day of that task, as I recall."

"Which you aren't now, at all," Darrian said drily.

Zevran laughed. He shifted, sliding onto his side so that they were pressed together. "Only when needed, I assure you. Why did you ask?"

"What do you mean?"

"We both have scars."

"I know." He traced the assassin's cheekbone, and the dark swirl of the tattoos there. "I just realised that there's probably lots of things I haven't ever thought to ask you."

"So you started there?" Zevran's lips parted into a smile. "Strange man, you are, my Warden. So. I can ask you these things as well?"

"Of course you can," he answered, and something in his chest twisted.

"Anything?"

"Anything," he echoed.

"So if I were to ask if you enjoy being tied up, you'd tell me…?"

"To be quiet," Darrian said, halfway through an unbidden laugh. He moved, rolling so that he was on top of the assassin, his knees astride Zevran's hips. "And that maybe you should ask me again when I'm feeling entirely better."

"Oh?" Zevran chuckled, and added, "Now _that_ is promising."

Darrian leaned down and quite deliberately, he brushed his lips across Zevran's forehead and cheekbones and the corner of his mouth. When he heard a knock at the door, he groaned and dropped his head against Zevran's shoulder. "Now? Really?"

Zevran laughed again. "So put some clothes on and be polite. You're a hero, my Warden. Didn't you know?"

He managed a glare, and carefully, he climbed off the edge of the bed. He wrestled himself into his breeches, and threw Zevran's onto the bed. He found a shirt and heaved it on fast enough that his shoulder twinged. He yanked the door open and looked up into Alistair's face. "Alistair," he said, uselessly.

"This is a bad time," Alistair replied. "Yes?"

"Not yet," Zevran called from where he was fussing with his shirt laces. "You are slightly too early to be truly disruptive."

"Oh. Good." Alistair coughed, and he added, "Can I come in then?"

"Yes," Darrian said wryly. "How about we try that all again?"

Alistair smiled. He stepped over the threshold, and the early sunlight sparkled across the silver foil embroidery that twined down his sleeves. "Good morning," Alistair said, quietly.

"Morning," Darrian replied.

"You look…not entirely dreadful."

"And you look nowhere near regal enough. I'm disappointed."

Alistair grinned. "So nearly getting killed by a dragon hasn't made you any more pleasant to be around?"

"Not at all."

Zevran reached for his boots, his fingers flickering as he buckled them on. "I believe," he said, and shot Darrian a grin. "I believe that I shall find Wynne. I have a book to return."

* * *

><p>Left alone with Darrian, Alistair waited while the other Warden poured watered-down wine. He accepted a cup, and watched as Darrian padded across to the windowseat, his thin shoulders drowning under the white folds of his shirt. He was moving carefully, too carefully, and Alistair wondered again what it had been like.<p>

"I'm sorry," Alistair said. "For interrupting. I just…Zevran told me last night that you were awake."

"It's alright," the elf said, and smiled. "I should've gone to see you first."

"You're the one who nearly got flattened by a dragon."

"Well, when you put it like _that_."

Alistair smiled. He crossed the carpet and settled himself on the edge of the windowseat. Beside him, the elf looked exhausted, drawn and pallid beneath the tumbled mess of his hair. He seemed young, too young, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his pale, bare feet flat against the sill.

"Darrian?"

"Yes?"

"Can I be terribly honest?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think it was going to work," Alistair said, and swallowed. "I mean, I wanted it to. I _really_ wanted it to. I just…Maker, when you ran _so close_ to it." He shook his head and somehow, he finished, "I was scared for you."

"I was scared for me as well," Darrian said, and one side of his mouth moved.

"What was it like? So close to it?"

"Worse than being further back from it," the elf answered, and laughed, hollowly. "It was…all this time, I'd convinced myself it couldn't be that bad. That it would just be something else to fight. And then I was standing there, and it was _singing_."

"I know," Alistair said, painfully.

"After I killed it, I don't even remember hitting the ground. I felt the sword go up into its mouth, and I think I felt it die. After that...I don't know." Slowly, Darrian blinked. "Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," the elf said, his head lifted. "For seeing me."

He wanted to throw another bad joke at the elf, maybe something else about interrupting lovers' trysts, but the words died on his tongue. "You're welcome. Darrian?"

"Yes?"

"We did alright?"

"We're still here," the elf said. "Yes. I think we did alright. In the end."

"Yes, I think we did." He rubbed at the back of his neck, and added, "And besides, I noticed that you're, ah, wearing jewelry now."

The elf touched his ear, his fingertips sliding across the small gold earring. "You noticed?"

"Well, no. _Leliana_ noticed, and she told me."

The elf laughed. "Well done. Both of you."

"So it's alright?"

The elf's smile softened. "Yes. It's very alright."

* * *

><p>Darrian sat in the windowseat, the cool press of the panes gentle against his shoulder. When the assassin glided in across the threshold again, another book clasped in one hand, Darrian grinned. "Is she trying to educate you?"<p>

"As if I need education in the kind of salacious detail that doubtless waits for me between these pages."

"Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you," Darrian said, and looked up and into the assassin's face.

"Oh, thanks are not needed. It is me, after all, who gets to have you all to myself now."

Darrian slid off the windowseat and the assassin met him halfway, one arm slipping around his waist. The assassin's other hand delved into Darrian's hair. "Lovely," the assassin murmured, and his fingertips grazed Darrian's ear. "Come back to bed."

"Yes," Darrian managed, and the damp heat of the assassin's mouth on his devoured breath and thought.

Not hurrying, the assassin kissed him again and again, and the pliant slide of his tongue along Darrian's made them both sigh. His hands wandered down Darrian's back, gently kneading, until his fingers hooked into Darrian's belt. Darrian responded, swept his own hands under Zevran's shirt, until the assassin twisted away from him.

"Oh, no," Zevran said, and kissed him again. "My turn first."

Darrian laughed. "I get no choice in the matter?"

"None," Zevran told him, and loosened the ties at his wrists and collar. He eased the shirt off, pausing when Darrian stiffened. "Your shoulder."

"It's fine."

"Darrian."

"It's fine," he repeated. "We'll just have to go slowly."

Zevran's hands framed his face, mapping out his cheekbones and his chin. When they were both finally, blessedly naked against each other, Zevran explored him with slow, yearning tenderness. The assassin's palms smoothed over his chest and the flat of his belly and lingered over the press of his hips.

He nearly lost himself far too soon, with Zevran's head between his spread thighs and his hands clenching in the assassin's hair.

"Not yet," Zevran murmured against him.

Gently, Zevran soothed him back from the brink. "See?" Zevran said, and kissed his flushed cheeks and the damp hair at his temples. "You look a lot more alive, my Warden. Much better."

Breathlessly, he laughed. He lunged for the assassin, wrapping his arms around slim shoulders and kissing him feverishly. Zevran groaned against his mouth and muttered, "I _did_ want this to last."

"Later," Darrian retorted.

"Impatient," Zevran told him, and rolled himself off the bed.

"Very." Somehow he made himself stay still and simply watch as Zevran knelt and dug into his neatly-arranged belongings. "Zev."

"Mmm?"

"I like looking at you."

"Fortunate, since I enjoy being looked at by you." Zevran paused, the small bottle of oil between his hands. "And is this all you wish to do?"

"Zev," Darrian said, and ruined his warning tone when he grinned again. "Come here."

He watched as the sunlight swam in the assassin's hair, and then Zevran was pressed against him, all supple skin and heat and grinding friction. The slick feel of the oil made him sigh, and helplessly, he bucked up against Zevran.

"Now, my Warden," Zevran said raggedly. "I am afraid I will need some help, since I don't wish to lean too much onto you."

Darrian wrapped his hands around them both and felt Zevran's shuddering response. "Oh," he murmured. "That's…I've missed you."

"I know," Zevran answered. "I know."

He rocked himself forward, and the damp sliding pressure of it made Darrian groan. Desperately, Darrian rolled his hips up, matching Zevran's deliberately slow pace.

"Zev," he said, roughly. "Zev, I can't…"

Zevran thrust harder against him, and the tortuous, coiling pleasure tightened. He abandoned himself to his climax, and his shuddering cry was swallowed when Zevran's mouth found his in a greedy, clumsy kiss. The assassin followed him into the same arching pleasure, his eyes half-closing and his hands digging into Darrian's shoulders.

"Oh," Darrian said, into the languid quiet afterwards. "Oh. Zev."

"Mmm?" Curled against his side, Zevran stirred and nuzzled beneath his jaw. "That good?"

"That good." He cupped a hand over the back of Zevran's head. "Stay like this?"

"Stay like this," Zevran echoed.

* * *

><p>Over the next days, the rain fell, and it took away the fires of Denerim and washed the high stone walls. Most evenings, Darrian sat in the windowseat and watched as the wind blew in squalling gusts against the panes. Daylight brought too many meetings, with the arl and with the arl's brother, and the nobles who still lived. Too many times he heard his own voice stumbling into awkward, stilting silences, and too often, he was too aware of how they looked at him, how they stared at the fine, gleaming silks that hung from his shoulders, the silks always shucked off once he fled the council chamber.<p>

The Dalish elves left first, slipping away into a damp grey dawn, a message from Mithra brought by a perplexed human guard to the arl's estate. The dwarves followed, and eventually, First Enchanter Irving asked for an armed escort and led his mages back to the high white tower at the lake.

Most mornings, after breakfast and before Darrian was called away to talk _again_, Shianni ensconced herself in the guest rooms with him. Zevran taught her the finer points of dice, and some complicated Antivan card game, and when she asked, how best to balance two slim daggers between both hands. Three times she brought Soris with her, and Darrian asked about the vhenadahl, and the others in the Alienage, and his father. Soris bristled at him, and snarled that he should take the time to go himself, and he shouted back at his cousin that he _would have_, if a dragon had not recently bitten him.

"Bitten you?" Soris' lips trembled at the corners, and he grinned. "Cousin. Really?"

"Well, I don't know," Darrian said, and tried to keep scowling. "Some part of it hit me. Some very sharp part."

Soris snorted. "Can't say you lead a boring life, cousin."

"Oh, shut up." Darrian folded his arms. "Can we talk about something else now?"

Eventually, Zevran prodded and prompted and coerced until Darrian found himself outside a little after sunrise, a practice sword in one hand. Ruthlessly, the assassin walked him through a simple sparring routine until his shoulders ached and his hands quivered.

"No, you must," Zevran said, when he shook his head and let the sword point dip. "You have to. You know this."

"Bastard," Darrian said.

"I know. Sword up."

Three days later, Alistair joined them, and Darrian discovered that he could – again, _finally_ – block the downswing of a sword without his arms caving beneath the strain. He pushed on as the noon sun swung overhead, and when he was shaking and sweat-sodden, Alistair ordered a halt.

Afterwards, when the afternoon turned grey and blustery, he hid beneath the folds of his cape and went with Shianni to the Alienage. She pushed him over the threshold at his father's house and quite firmly closed the door on him. She called back through the window that she would come back and find him later, and that _no_, he was not allowed to leave any earlier.

"Since it seems you're staying," his father said mildly, from where he sat at the table. "You may as well sit down."

Wordlessly, Darrian tugged off the cape and obeyed. He dug his fingertips against the rough wood and blurted, "I know it's been a long time. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Shianni said you were very badly hurt." Father's head tilted, and softly, he asked, "Can you tell me what happened?"

_How long_, he wondered. _How long had it been since he had sat in this room and told his father anything approaching the truth? _

He had lied about stealing from humans in the marketplace, and lied about the boy who had had him up against a wall during the midsummer dancing and afterwards, in the brittle autumn that followed. He had lied about the lessons he should have accepted from Valendrian, and he had lied about the food he had given to Soris, that winter a few years back when ice rimed the wharves.

"The dragon," he said, awkwardly. "We had to get close to it. I think I got a bit too close to it."

He looked up, and into his father's face, and when he found no censure there, the words rolled off his tongue. He told his father about the smoke that had choked him, high up on the tower of Fort Drakon, of how the dragon had seemed to fill the sky, how its claw or the edge of its wing or whatever it had been had sliced across his shoulder.

How he had stood there and thought that he might die when it fell.

Very gently, Father touched the back of his hands. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For staying. For telling me."

Darrian swallowed. "So," he said, and somehow he kept his tone light. "While I was being mad and chasing a dragon around, what happened to you?"

* * *

><p>Twelve mercifully uneventful days later, Darrian nodded to the splendidly-clad guards and stepped into the king's chambers. He discovered Alistair in the smaller of the rooms, the one with the cluttered table and high bookshelves.<p>

"You wanted to see me?"

Alistair glanced up and smiled. Beneath the disheveled thatch of his hair, his eyes were shadowed. "I hate that I have to _arrange_ to see you now. But it's just that…there's so much to do."

"It's alright. It makes me feel more important than I am."

Alistair laughed. "I can order you to make some more public appearances if you want."

"No, thank you." Darrian flopped into the empty chair. "So?"

"So, the Wardens," Alistair said, and grimaced. "I'm sorry."

Darrian shook his head. "We've talked about this. I know you've gifted Amaranthine to me. Sorry, to the Wardens. Not that I know where it is."

"I'll give you a map." Alistair sighed, and added, "Don't laugh, but I almost either wish I could go with you, or we could just let the Wardens send someone important from Weisshaupt to deal with it instead."

"Alistair," he said.

"You'll have to have a title."

"A what?"

"A title. Warden-Commander."

"I don't want a title. Why can't it be you?"

"Because you made me king," Alistair said, and the corners of his mouth quirked.

"Fine. I release you of your regal duties."

"Oh, sometimes I wish. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Darrian said, and his voice turned rough.

"I don't know how long you'll be in Amaranthine. There's still darkspawn around, you know that. And even if there weren't, we'd still need to do _something_. And I'm going to be stuck here and _yes_, I know I'm babbling, so stop looking at me like that." Alistair slouched back in his chair. "So even with all of that, can we try and do this together?"

Darrian swallowed. "Going to miss me, are you?"

"You know I am," Alistair said, very quietly.

"And yes, in answer," Darrian told him. "After all, why break a bad habit?"

"Oh, ouch," Alistair retorted. "You'll be alright?"

"I'll let you know if all of Amaranthine goes up in flames. Or gets attacked by a dragon."

"No, that you can keep to yourself."

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Look," Darrian said. "Be careful. Please?"

"I'm always careful. You're the one who never thinks."

"I think."

"Like the time you _thought_ about that high dragon we saw?"

"It was practice," he said, and suddenly, absurdly, he was laughing until his shoulders shook beneath his tunic. "For the archdemon."

"That _really_ isn't funny," Alistair said, and he stifled his own laughter into the back of his hand. "Now get out of here. You're distracting me."

* * *

><p>Zevran woke, his heart thudding too fast and his mind upside-down with the sharp memory of an early, rain-filled morning and the dull, heavy feeling that <em>he knew<em> what was going to happen.

_ He crouched against the slope of the boulder again, and idly, he looked down at the cleft between the rocks below. A narrow bottleneck of a valley, steep on both sides, and already his thoughts ran wild. He could place the archers on both sides, and the woman on the ground, and she would do it, she would lead them into the valley. _

_ She had promised him as much last night, sighing and gasping it into his mouth as she shuddered under him. He was her first elf, she had said, and he had made himself smile winningly before he rolled her on top of him, his fingers biting into her hips, hard enough to bruise. _

_ Overhead, the sky rippled grey with wind-raked clouds, and for once, he did not hate the chill that clung to his skin and his lips and the back of his hands. The dismal weather that seemed to unravel cold and blustery over every part of this forsaken country would help him, and strangely, the thought made him smile. The rain would reduce the path to useless footing, and he could throw himself into the chaos and see if these Grey Wardens were worth their reputation. _

_ He had seen them, the Wardens and their companions. Barely close enough to count them properly, while he pressed himself deeper into the sodden folds of his cape and watched. _

_ Three women, and a man in plate armour who seemed ridiculously tall. A dog, a Fereldan dog, dark-furred and huge. Another man who rarely lowered his shield and a wiry, young-looking black-haired elf, and Zevran understood that these were the Grey Wardens who would kill him. _

Blindly, he turned over, and flinched when Darrian's arms closed around him.

"Only me," his Warden mumbled, his voice all slurred with sleep.

"Yes." He willed his heartbeat slower, and blankly, he stared at the small lantern they had left burning. The flame glowed behind the panes, tiny and steady.

"Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

For the barest instant, he froze. Some terrible part of him wanted to kick away from his Warden's embrace and be somewhere else, anywhere else, somewhere outside, and away from this strange, listening warmth. Zevran turned his face against Darrian's throat and murmured, "I wanted to die."

"What?"

"My Grey Warden, you were meant to kill me. I set that ambush and I expected to die. I wanted to die."

"Zevran," Darrian said. "Oh, _Zev_."

"No, it is alright."

"Is it?"

"A dream," he said, and brushed his thumb along Darrian's lips. "It was just a dream. The morning I set the ambush."

"You know," Darrian murmured. "I did wonder why your ambush was so incredibly clumsy."

Zevran spluttered into a laugh. "Charming."

"_Is_ it alright?"

"Yes," he answered, honestly. "Now it is."

Darrian's lips moved against his forehead, and his Warden mumbled, "Love you. Even if you did set the worst ambush I've ever had the privilege to wander into."

Words were only words and meant nothing, Zevran knew, air shaped by voices and useless as smoke. Yet something in him ached when his Warden said it, how _easily_ he said it. Every time he wondered if he should echo the words, but whenever he tried, his throat closed up around them.

He wondered if his Warden minded.

"Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know what's going to be strange?"

"Am I restricted to only one answer?"

Darrian laughed. "We'll be travelling again."

"That's strange?"

"Yes. I think so. Different. We'll be slightly less likely to be attacked by darkspawn."

"Only slightly?" Zevran tilted his head so he could kiss his Warden's chin. "How disappointing."

"How long did it take you to get here? From Antiva, I mean?"

"A long time. I remember the day I stepped into Ferelden. I got rained on."

Darrian snorted. "Of course you did."

"I did. I was horrified. Then I tried one of those establishments your people call inns, and everything just became progressively worse."

"Zev?" Darrian hesitated, his fingers threading through Zevran's hair. "Tell me about it?"

"All of it? Oh, my Warden. Most of it is boring. Some of it is not."

"All of it," Darrian said.

"You are stubborn sometimes," Zevran responded. "Ah, well. Let us see if I can keep you entertained, shall we?"

And he found himself talking, sometimes easily, sometimes almost stumbling over the words while his Warden listened. He let himself stay there, with Darrian's arms around him, holding him, holding them together.


	18. Rain

_This is the last chapter, more of an epilogue in some ways. As always, the biggest thank-you to everyone who's been following this story. Reviews are always welcome, and Bioware owns nearly everything. _

_**Chapter Eighteen – Rain **_

The arl's estate, Zevran thought, was a strange place now that the city was cleared of the darkspawn and the dead. Messengers often called for his Warden's presence at court, though Zevran was never quite sure _why_ Darrian was so suddenly necessary. Some days even _he_ was summoned, and he smirked when he heard himself called _the Warden's companion_. An improvement, he supposed idly, since most of the arl's servants simply spoke of _the elf with that accent_.

"Sword _up_," he called across the courtyard, when he saw his Warden's posture slacken. "Again."

"I'm dying," Darrian retorted between deep breaths. "Or I'm about to."

"No, you aren't. Do it again."

"Why aren't you doing it with me?"

"Because, my dear Warden, I did not come _nearly_ as close to getting killed as you did. Nor does my footwork need such attention regardless." _And because_, Zevran thought, _because they would be going to Amaranthine and he needed his Warden well and strong. _

"That's a poor excuse, Zev."

Zevran sighed and eeled off the stone bench. He scooped up one of the practice swords and balanced the odd, light wooden weight of it. "As you would have it. Let us see how long you last before defeat, shall we?"

"Insufferable Antivan."

Darrian twisted past him, and the tip of the practice sword smacked against Zevran's shoulder.

"Nice," he said.

"You're not trying," Darrian responded.

He grinned, and when he spun again, he threw himself full-force at his Warden. The wooden blade cracked hard against Darrian's, and when his Warden swayed back a pace, Zevran swept a foot at his ankles.

Darrian staggered, hopping back until he was standing steady again. Watching him, Zevran allowed him another moment to right himself before he was moving again, driving Darrian back with each stroke of the practice sword. He dropped beneath another swing of his Warden's sword and rolled until he was behind his Warden. He latched one hand against Darrian's sleeve, clamping his Warden's arm against his side. When his Warden twisted and hissed and swore at him, he lodged one knee between both of Darrian's and murmured, "I think I win."

"Not yet," his Warden snarled, and tried to wrench free again.

"You're better than this," Zevran said, and quite deliberately, he nuzzled his face against loose black hair until he could taste the nape of his Warden's neck.

Darrian slammed an elbow into his stomach, and Zevran laughed breathlessly when he stumbled away from his Warden. "Better," he said.

"Don't you," Darrian replied, and his whole weight crashed into Zevran, shoulder-first. "_Ever_ shut up?"

"No," Zevran told him, and nipped at the side of his neck. "Never."

Darrian laughed and whirled away from him. Zevran followed, matching him pace for pace, and when his Warden flung himself forward again, he absorbed each punishing stroke.

"Better again," he remarked, and dodged Darrian's vicious swipe in response.

The afternoon wore away while he let his Warden spin and fight and thrash his way through the sparring routine. Overhead, the clouds rippled pewter, and when the first, half-expected drops of rain slicked his hair to his temples, he paused long enough to glare up at the sky.

"It won't hurt, you know," Darrian said, and when Zevran looked at him, he saw that his Warden's eyes were laughing.

"I stand by my promise," Zevran retorted. "Some day I shall take you to Antiva and you will finally understand the difference."

Darrian's sword smacked against his again, and Zevran twisted into an elegant response. He mirrored his Warden's lithe, easy steps until the rain turned the courtyard slippery underfoot and water droplets clung to his eyelashes.

"Enough?" Darrian asked, and grinned through wet black hair.

"Enough," Zevran admitted.

Inside, they dripped their way across the guards' armoury and left the wooden swords on the sparring rack. Sidelong, Zevran eyed his Warden, and quietly noted the way the damp folds of his tunic pulled across his shoulders, the way his white fingers pushed through the soaked ebony ribbons of his hair. As silently, he clasped Darrian's wrist and led him out of the armoury. He made it halfway up the smaller set of stairs before he surrendered and shoved Darrian against the wall.

Darrian laughed, the sound of it entirely unguarded. "Here, Zev? Really?"

"Your fault," he said, and kissed the side of Darrian's neck and the beautifully soft skin just beneath his jaw. His Warden's hands swept down his back and dipped teasingly lower. "And yes, right here, unless you stop doing that."

"You started it," Darrian retorted.

He grinned in response and kissed his Warden properly, kissed him until they were both breathless and leaning into each other.

"Upstairs," Darrian mumbled against his mouth. "_Now_."

Zevran swayed away from the wall, tugging his Warden roughly after him. Together they stumbled up the stairs and down the last stretch of the corridor, and Zevran wrestled with the key while his Warden pressed taunting kisses against his throat. By the time the door was kicked shut behind them, Darrian's fingers were pulling at his belt and then the laces beneath and he found himself pushed into the chair.

Darrian kissed him again, and he tasted salt and rainwater inside his Warden's mouth. He reached for his Warden, for the rucked folds of his tunic, and Darrian slapped his hands away.

"No," Darrian said. "Stay there."

"Oh? Whatever is it you have in mind, my Warden?"

"Be quiet and maybe you'll find out."

He watched while Darrian peeled off his rain-splotched clothes. Darrian turned, and Zevran saw the scarred half-circle on his shoulder, livid and still raised. Too quickly, he blinked, and turned his attention to unbuckling his own boots.

"Stay there," Darrian told him, when he straightened up to roll his breeches down.

He did, and when Darrian slicked his own fingers with the scented oil, and slowly worked himself open, Zevran swallowed. He did not quite trust his own voice, so he watched until his lap was full of his Warden, Darrian's hands braced against his thighs, and Darrian's back sliding against his chest. Slowly – _too slowly,_ Zevran thought – his Warden rose and fell against him. He let his hands wander across Darrian's chest until he found the thump of his Warden's heartbeat.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his Warden's shoulder. Darrian's wet hair was sliding against his face, and Darrian's languid, rolling rhythm was too teasingly unhurried.

"Bed," Zevran murmured, and bit the side of his Warden's neck. "Now, or I'll carry you there."

Darrian laughed again, and Zevran wondered if perhaps _this_ was what his Warden had been like, in the Alienage, in years when he had been younger, in the years before Ostagar.

"Impatient," Darrian said, and eased himself away.

Zevran caught him around the waist, and pulled him close enough for a demanding kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He pushed and Darrian grabbed his arms and pulled and somehow they toppled onto the bed together. His shoulders hit the sheets first and Darrian's weight pinned him. There was a frantic, shuddering moment while they twisted against each other until he was buried in his Warden again. He rolled them both over so he could drive himself deeper. Beneath him, Darrian bucked, his hand sliding down his own belly to wrap around himself and stroke. The sight of it, of his Warden arching gloriously up into his own pleasure, the sight of it undid him, and he emptied himself into the clenching heat of Darrian's body.

Darrian gasped out Zevran's name, and his clipped Fereldan voice ruined the lilt of it. Shakily, Zevran curled his hand around Darrian's fingers, and another stroke sent his Warden over the edge.

Entirely uncaring, Zevran let himself collapse across Darrian's chest, his head lolling beneath his Warden's chin.

"Zev," Darrian said, and pushed at the top of his head. "Too heavy."

"Don't care," he said, and yawned. "Not going anywhere."

Softly, Darrian laughed. "No?"

"No," he echoed. "You caught me and now you're stuck with me, I'm afraid."

* * *

><p>Dawn mantled the royal palace with grey mist the day of the Warden's leaving, and the sun stayed veiled. In his rooms he stuffed the last of his belongings into his pack, and when Zevran eyed it askance, he sighed and tried to rearrange some of it.<p>

Leliana brought breakfast, and a soft kiss for Darrian, and a winning smile for his assassin lover. When she left, she left them a pack of beautifully illuminated cards, a declaration to send them letters and a demand that both of them do the same in return. Oghren came next, squinting into the wan dawn, and he slapped Darrian's shoulder hard enough that he staggered.

"You're alright," the dwarf said, and did it again, slightly softer.

"About Fort Drakon," Darrian responded. "Thank you."

"Yes, well," Oghren said, and scrubbed at his hair with one hand. "Could've left you there, but your pretty boy over there would've moped himself to death."

"Charming, as ever," Zevran muttered.

"As always, elf."

Wynne came next, and she looked at Darrian thoughtfully.

He shifted, and asked, "What is it?"

"You," she said, and smiled. "You look like the same boy I saw at Ostagar, and yet you do not."

He smiled. "That's deliberately cryptic, you know."

"I know." Her eyes softened, and she said, "I've decided to stay at court."

"You have plans to woo your way through slavering ranks of deserving young men, then?" Zevran asked, and smirked.

"Very amusing," Wynne told him. "Alistair has asked if I will, and I have said yes."

Something strange and warm and very like relief curled through Darrian's belly. "Good," he said. "I think…yes, that's good. He won't…he shouldn't be on his own."

Later, after the sunlight brightened through the lancet windows, Wynne gave her farewells. Very gently, she touched Darrian's shoulder, and his face. She passed a book to Zevran, and when he grinned wickedly, she ignored him and pulled him into a rough hug.

"Are you completely fed up with goodbyes yet?" Alistair asked from where he stood at the threshold, turning slightly so Wynne could slip past him. The dog stood beside him, his head leaning into Alistair's hip.

"Utterly," Darrian said.

"Well, we could just do the big celebratory official public one instead, if you want."

"What? I thought we didn't have to do that."

Alistair grinned. "We don't."

"You're awful. My heart nearly stopped when you said that."

"I know. You're all ready?"

"Yes," Darrian said, and ached.

"Yes, I," Alistair said, and coughed. His fingertips rubbed over the dog's head. "I think you should have him."

"Zevran? I do. Nearly every day, in fact."

"The dog, you dreadful elf."

"Oh." Darrian jerked his gaze up, and into Alistair's open, slightly worried face. "Oh. I…really? I mean, he can stay here if he wants. It's up to him, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but _you_ were the one who went tramping all over the Korcari Wilds looking for those flowers for the kennelmaster."

"What? I did not."

"You did," Alistair said, and grinned slowly. "What was it you said at the time? _We need to keep looking. Come on, Alistair, you saw that poor creature, we have to keep looking. He looked terrible, Alistair, you saw him, didn't you?_"

"I don't sound like that. At all."

"Of course you don't." Alistair's fingers dug behind the dog's ears. "So, I just thought, if he wants to go with you, then he should go with you."

Darrian swallowed. "Thank you."

"Yes, well. You can tell me all about how many darkspawn he tries to eat sometime."

"Alistair?" Before he could say anything too ridiculous, Darrian leaned up, wrapping one arm partway around Alistair's back and pressing his face into Alistair's shoulder.

"I know," the man said, when Darrian stepped away. "You're going to miss my dazzling company. Your life will be so uneventful from now on."

"Of course it will. Keep that up and I'll hug you again."

Alistair laughed. "You do know it's probably treason to lay hands on your king without permission?"

"Will you be telling that to all the ravishingly beautiful noblewomen who will no doubt be following you around?" Zevran asked.

"Maybe," Alistair answered. His smile faded, and he looked at Darrian again. "Sure you're ready?"

"I think so."

"Well then," Alistair said quietly. "Let's get you out of here and on your way before we lose the morning."

* * *

><p>Under needling drizzle, Zevran sat on the low stone wall and waited. On both sides, the small Alienage houses leaned against each other, windows dark and most of them still empty. Against his shoulders, the oddly unfamiliar weight of his pack pressed awkwardly. The dog sat on his right side, its huge head lolling against his leg, and he did not quite have the nerve to shove it away.<p>

"Hey," Shianni said, from somewhere behind him. "Are you drenched yet?"

"Not yet."

"Give it a while." She sank onto the wall beside him and sat with her knees drawn up. Her head turned, and she looked at him through piercingly bright eyes. "Did you say something to him?"

"No. Why?"

"He's still in there. Still talking to Cyrion and Soris."

"That is good, yes?" Zevran guessed.

"Yes. It's just not like him."

"People change," Zevran said, softly.

"I suppose. That dog is _huge_."

"I know."

"Its head is nearly longer than your forearm."

"I know," Zevran said again. "He's terrifying."

"What's his name?"

"Dog."

"No, what's his name?"

"That is his name," Zevran said, and found himself absurdly amused when she scowled. "Your cousin acquired him after the battle at Ostagar, I'm told. He assumed that the dog must have already had a name, but he had no idea of how to discover this name. So, instead of insulting the dog by giving it a new and possibly unsuitable name, he and his fellow Warden decided that it would just be the dog."

Shianni snorted. "I wish I'd never asked."

"You know, it's funny how often people say that to me."

The rain pattered against Zevran's head and his gloves when he turned his hands palm-up. He felt unmoored, floating somehow, when he thought of how he would be going with his Warden. Out of the city and into the wilds and he would be there all the way to Amaranthine and elsewhere, he supposed.

He thought of the Crows, and the thought flooded his mind with simmering, ugly anger.

There would be more of them, because there always were, and he wondered how many he would have to fight off, how many might try to kill him.

_Kill him and his Warden_.

_No_, he thought.

They would die, all of them and any of them who came for his Warden.

The Crows were part of a past that was not truly dead, and he knew it. He knew that it was as true and as indelible as the swirls of ink that marked his skin, and he wondered how long it would be until they discovered him.

The past was a strange creature, he thought. His Warden's was one of cold grey streets and the bright curling branches of the vhenadahl and Ostagar and a decision made in the shadows of Redcliffe Castle.

The witch had months, many months before the child would grow, weeks even before the child would quicken inside her. Almost idly Zevran wondered what the child might look like, whether it would keep the witch's wolfish yellow eyes or his Warden's. Black hair and pale skin and the child would be beautiful, and he swallowed at the odd, aching emptiness that settled in him.

"Hey," Shianni said again, and nudged him. "Your face is all strange. You're alright?"

"Of course," he said, and summoned a smile for her. "Memories. Old decisions."

"Bad decisions?"

"No," he said, and exhaled slowly. "Just decisions." He tipped his head back until the rain tapped gently against his half-closed eyelids. "Now, my dear," he said, and blinked the droplets away. "Tell me something about your cousin."

"Oh?" She grinned. "And what do you want to know?"

"Oh, anything even mildly embarrassing will do as a start."

* * *

><p>The road wound south through rolling hills and into windswept flatlands, and under the cover of deep night, sometimes the darkspawn attacked. Small groups, and they often fled beneath the blaze of flaming torches or Zevran's arrows or the dog's bared teeth. Others rushed them at dawn, in the strange greyness just before sunrise. But <em>always<em>, they were in small numbers, and they fell easily, toppling beneath vicious swings of Darrian's sword and collapsing under the livid arcs of Zevran's blades. Darrian still felt them, felt the seething brush of their awareness against his, and more than once, it woke him from dreamless sleep and he shouted out a warning to the assassin.

The weather worsened as they worked their way south through snaking valleys and down slopes uneven with gravel and water-slick boulders. The dog often loped on ahead of them, Darrian calling out for him to take care of himself, and Zevran grimacing whenever the dog returned enthusiastically caked in mud. Most nights, Darrian huddled against the assassin while the wind plucked at the tent ropes and the rain swept in battering squalls against the canvas walls.

"Tell me," Zevran said, one night when the howling wind kept them both awake past midnight. He reached out and claimed the brandy bottle from Darrian's hand. "Tell me again, my dear Warden. Why did I agree to this?"

"Because you would be bored without me?"

"Boredom might be a nice change."

"Because I put up with you?"

"A fair point."

"And," Darrian said, and purloined the bottle back from him. "And because I know _just how_ to make you scream my name."

"Indeed?" Zevran said, and his eyes glittered evilly.

A heartbeat later, Darrian was on his back while the brandy sloshed alarmingly and Zevran's weight settled across his hips.

"So," Zevran said, and nipped at the pointed tip of Darrian's ear. "Care to prove yourself right?"

Afterwards, they lay twined around each other amid the tangle of blankets, his head against Zevran's shoulder and Zevran's fingers playing across the cold glass pendent. Half beneath him, the assassin smelled of heat and passion and the soap he had stolen from Darrian some days earlier. The lantern burned down, and he listened to the familiar sounds of the dog as he padded past the tent flaps again.

Zevran shifted, lifting the brandy bottle to his lips again. "I find that I have a question."

"Mmm?"

Zevran's fingers hooked under the fine silver chain, pressed beneath the pendent. Darrian felt the hesitation in him, in the way his shoulders stiffened slightly, in the way the silence stretched between them. So he turned his face until his cheek slid along Zevran's, and murmured, "If you share the last of the brandy, I'll listen to anything you say."

"Bribery, is it? As you will, then. I simply…the Crows."

"I know," Darrian said, and he reached for the bottle. The brandy flooded his mouth, sharp enough to make him shudder. "If you're about to try and scare me with some tale of how they never give up looking, don't bother."

Zevran chuckled. "No? Not even if I made the tale terribly lurid?"

"Not even then." He turned his head again so that he was leaning into the crook of Zevran's bare shoulder. "If the Crows come for you, then they come for me, and I am not going to let them have either of us."

He barely heard Zevran's slow, almost inaudible sigh. The assassin's fingers slipped over his collarbone, and he said, "My Warden, I was thinking entirely the same thing. Of course, I was also thinking other things. Mainly about locked doors and silk sheets and expensive wine and whether this Vigil's Keep of yours will have them. And if it does not, then I know what I shall be spending your coin on."

Darrian laughed. "Zev?"

"Mmm?"

"Stop talking and go to sleep."

"You're so unforgiving, my Warden," Zevran said, and his smiling mouth found Darrian's in a slow, teasing kiss.

"I know," he said. "Come here."

The assassin moved, rolling so that he was half on top of Darrian, the ends of his hair brushing across Darrian's throat. Outside, the rain slapped against the wind-rippled walls of the tent. Darrian closed his eyes and Zevran's arms met across his back, and in the warm darkness they lay together and waited for the morning.


End file.
